


i'm bare-boned and crazy for you

by thewinterose



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Calculating Sansa, F/M, Has elements of The Borgias in case you're into that, Jon Snow is Sansa Stark's sexual awakening, Jon is just doing his best, Medium-ish burn?? Kinda??, Sansa is a BAMF and everyone knows it, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-22 19:07:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 53,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11973798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewinterose/pseuds/thewinterose
Summary: In which a fight with Arya leads to some undiscovered feelings on account to Sansa's infuriating bastard brother Jon Snow.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was a fic that I wrote a little before Odi et Amo and I hope you guys will like it as much! Like always, I accept constructive criticism. The title is based off of the song Crash Into Me by The Dave Matthews Band which is an excellent song. Enjoy!

It started because of Arya, which if she wanted to be petulant, then she would blame most of her life’s problems on her sister. Strangely enough though, the argument didn’t end up as most of her fights with her sister did: with hair pulling and name calling and wide bloody scratches across her arms, a feral look plastered on Arya’s long face. Usually Septa Mordane or her mother would interfere and the two would be forced to apologize to each other before being sent to their respective rooms.

Sansa hated these confrontations. It always made her feel like less of a lady and more like the wild beast she accused her sister of being, but Arya had a way about her that always made the wolf’s blood that flowed in her veins boil to the surface. In these moments, she would rage and scream and debase herself in such a way that she would cry about it hours later in the privacy of her room. Her mother would always look at her in a manner that spoke of her silent disappointment, of her embarrassment, and Sansa would color red in her shame.

This fight was different, or it ended differently in any case. At this moment she couldn’t particularly tell.The blood was still pounding in her ears and muddling her thoughts.

She was stitching in their mother’s solar, Arya sitting a little ways across from her, grunting and hissing and generally just making a mess out of her work like she usually did. At that moment, Septa Mordane sat at her side and cooed at the sight of her nimble fingers weaving what should’ve been a new handkerchief for her father. The Septa called her handiwork beautiful, said her talent was something all young ladies should revere and envy in equal measure. Sansa smiled at the compliment. She always did love pleasing others.

Arya looked up from her attempt at her own handkerchief, something like contempt shining in her wide luminous eyes, and although Sansa would never admit it, her sister’s eyes were always very lovely.

She stood slowly and set down her work at her chair, before crossing to stand at her sister’s side. Arya’s eyes followed her movements, narrowing slightly at Sansa’s presence beside her. “Are you here to insult me, Oh Great Lady Sansa?” Arya spat at her mockingly, her hands fisting around her needle. Sansa bristled slightly at her tone, but she steadied herself. She was a lady like her mother and she would not relent to her sister’s taunts.

“No,” Sansa said in a calm, cordial tone that only a lady could use. “I’m here to help you, Arya. I see that you have been struggling and I have decided to assist you in your feminine endeavors.”

Arya raised her eyebrows in suspicion and peered at her sister through narrowed eyes, as if assessing whether she was teasing her or not. “Wow,” she said slowly, “I never thought I’d see the day where my sister would deign to help me with my sewing.”

Were Sansa not so insulted, she would’ve been impressed with her sister’s usage of the word ‘deign’. After all, Arya was never very studious.

She breathed a sigh through her nose and kneeled to make eye contact with the girl in front of her. “Arya, I am sorry if I have insulted you with my desire to help, but it’s time that you start to take this seriously. What are you going to do if Father or Robb come back injured and need our help? It’s not a useless pass time,” Sansa said passionately, imploring her sister to understand, to learn.  
Perhaps it would come more easily to her if she understood what they could do with their sewing needles.

Arya looked down for a moment, as if she was considering what Sansa said, and then returned her gaze to her older sister. “Well then why do I have to this?” She cried and pointed to the sloppy stitches on her handkerchief.

Sansa slightly winced at the handiwork, realizing once again how hopeless her sister was at this. Arya caught sight of her expression and shrieked in anger, throwing the handkerchief across the room.

Septa Mordane gasped in outrage and stood suddenly, ready to scold Arya, but Sansa beat her to it. “Why are you such a beast?” She cried, “I attempt to help you and you act like a wild thing! Is this how you thank me?” Sansa asked, though she was not truly expecting an answer. A part of her screamed that she was losing her composure. That a lady would never yell at her sister the way she was, but she was past the point of caring. She had the wolf’s blood too.

Arya turned her furious gaze to her. “I’m not a beast! You, however, are a spoiled little brat! Why in the seven hells are you always so condescending?” Arya said, and Sansa, in her frustration, nearly grabbed her own auburn locks to yank.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Septa Mordane making calming gestures in order to placate the two girls, but so lost were they in their fight that the Septa was ignored.

“I’m not a brat! I’m a lady! Like Mother! It’s not my fault you’re so useless at it!” Sansa screeched.

Her sister’s face scrunched a bit as if she was about to cry, but then a look of total rage overcame her pretty face. She looked to the side where the Septa stood, where Sansa’s work was, and before Sansa could plead for her to stop, Arya lunged at the handkerchief and tore it straight down the middle. Sansa felt numb for a moment and both sisters stood in total silence as they watched the tattered cloth fall to the floor. Arya looked up at her, eyes wide and guilty, watching as Sansa’s face contorted in a feral rage.

With not even a thought casted as to how her mother would react to this, how disappointed and upset she would feel, Sansa barreled towards her younger sister. She grabbed the dark ringlets of Arya’s hair and yanked harshly.

Adrenaline and a dark satisfaction unfurled in her chest when she heard Arya screech in pain. Her sister, never to be out done, reached up and scratched down the sides of Sansa’s porcelain cheeks, leaving behind bright red lines of blood running down. Sansa’s sky blue eyes watered at the stinging agony she felt and she could hear Arya’s enraged growl below her.

Under the blood pounding in her ears, Sansa could hear Septa Mordane screaming for assistance. "The girls have gone feral!" she cried, but Sansa ignored her in favor of the rage she felt.

For a moment she understood why her sister was the way she was. Acting like a beast and giving into her darker desires gave her a freedom that being a lady restricted her from feeling. Before she could linger on the thought for much longer, two strong arms wrapped around her small waist and dragged her away from Arya. Sansa fought and howled at the action, her fingers reaching to her sister, her hands aching to draw blood like Arya had done.

“Let me go! Release me! Do you even know what she did?” she cried as the arms around her waist reached up to hold down her searching arms. Sansa felt someone’s mouth at her ear, felt lips moving against her hair. “What in the seven hells were you doing to her? What came over you?” It was Robb’s voice at her ear, Robb’s arms around her. _It’s Arya_ she wanted to scream. _It’s always Arya!_ But she found no words.

After a few moments of her struggling and Robb fighting to keep her in his grasp, she suddenly stilled and looked to where Arya was.

Their half-brother Jon Snow held her in his arms with no great effort even though Arya continuously tried kicking at him. Theon stood off to the corner of the room with Septa Mordane beside him, amusement and shock playing across his handsome features.

“You little monster! That was for Father and I worked on it for weeks! You tore it apart and ruined it like the cretin you are!”

“I’m not a monster, Sansa! Stop calling me that! Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!”

“But you are! You’re the worst kind there is! My life would be so much better if you were born a bastard like Jon!”

Arya shrieked again in outrage before melting into Jon Snow’s embrace, tears dribbling down her face in earnest. Sansa could hear her whimpers from where she stood, and if she listened harder, she could hear Jon’s quiet assurances. "You’re not a monster," he whispered. "You’re not a bastard, not like me, never like me," he said to her.

Robb was frozen behind her, his arms growing slack around her body in his shock at the emergence of their younger sister’s tears. Septa Mordane came beside Arya, her features still stern but softer in the face of her crying.

Sniffling quietly, Arya was lead out the room by the Septa, who cast Sansa a look that spoke of how strongly she felt about her recent behavior. At the moment, she could not say that she cared that much, her pride was still smarting and her face stung with every tear she shed. Sansa looked over to where Jon stood and watched the soft, comforting look on his face transform into rage the moment his grey eyes met hers.

He stalked closer to where she stood, Robb no longer holding her and standing just a few steps away. “How dare you, Sansa? How dare you make our sister cry like that?” He demanded, his face just inches from her own, the heat in his gaze burning like dragon fire. “Don’t speak as if she’s the victim, Jon Snow. You know nothing about what happened. You didn’t see what she did," she said fiercely. Jon cast his eyes towards the handkerchief that lied at their feet, torn and tattered and insignificant in his eyes.

“Are you fucking serious? This is over a handkerchief?” He demanded. Sansa wanted to say how it was supposed to be for Father, as if it would make all the difference, but even then she knew that was a weak argument. Instead, she stayed silent, her lack of a response speaking for her.

Jon turned his furious eyes back on her and she felt frozen under the command of his smoky gaze. His eyes were like Father’s. “Why are you mean to her?” He asked lowly and Sansa nearly scoffed in disbelief.

“Mean? You should’ve seen her earlier. She refused my help and went wild over the fact that I’m more of a lady than her!”

“A lady? You mistake yourself, Sansa. _You_ were the one who attacked her and caused her to burst into tears. Does that sound very ladylike to you?”

Sansa wanted to hit him she was so angry. “What do you know of what being a lady entails? You’re nothing but a nameless bastard.” Sansa said coldly, her tone haughty and superior, like how her mother sounded when she spoke to Jon. His eyes widened for a fraction of a second, his nostrils flaring in indignation before he moved closer to where she was. The space between them was scarce.

Jon reached out and grabbed her wrists, pulling her to where he stood. She could hear Robb demanding Jon to let her go, but they both ignored him in favor of their anger. “I may be a bastard, but I love Arya, which is more than what I can say for you. I would never speak to her that way,” he hissed, his breath skimming across her lips. Sansa almost said that she loved her too, more than he did probably, for she was her trueborn sister and not him, but she did not.

"But you would speak to me that way, Jon,” Sansa said lowly, her voice so soft it was nearly a whisper.

Jon shivered slightly and pulled her flush against him, chest to chest, and were she not so distracted by her anger, she would’ve cried at the impropriety of it. His hands clutched her wrists tightly, hard enough to bruise. She wanted to rage at him, shriek that he was nothing but a jealous bastard, but a strange sensation bubbling from within her held her in place. The lack of distance between them thrilled and petrified her equally.

His eyes were near level with hers because he was stooped slightly, and their noses were a hairsbreadth apart. Something about the position, about the anger churning in her breast, and the wrath that shone in his eyes left her feeling breathless. There existed an ache from somewhere within her that was born out of this moment, and she found no relief from it the longer she was held in his arms.

Sansa wanted to curse him, and punch him, and hold him close so that he may stay in her grasp and love her as fiercely as he did Arya, but even the thought of that kind of love did not satisfy her. But that wasn’t right was it? It couldn’t be. He was Jon and she was Sansa and they were so far out of each other’s orbit that even existing in the same space felt like foreign territory. She tried not to think too deeply on the implications of that, horrified at the direction where those thoughts might take her.

They stood silently, the only sound between them being their respective pants. Jon’s gaze was focused on her own, before his eyes flickered to her open mouth, and she followed his gaze as they landed on her heaving chest. His eyes darted to hers again, smoky and heated in a way that was not unlike hunger.

Suddenly, as if her touch burned him, he pushed her away from him and into Robb. He spared her one last heated glance before rushing away, muttering a quick apology as he went.

Theon and Robb looked at her, both of their eyes narrowed in confusion as she continued to stare where Jon once stood. She could still feel where his hands held her. His touch burned through the sleeves of her dress and settled into the spaces between her skin and bones.

Sansa felt hot and hungry and restless, and she felt like clawing at her skin until she could feel satisfaction. But there was none to gain.

Without sparing a glance to the two young men still in the room, Sansa left with a dramatic sweep of her skirts and headed to her chambers where her mother would no doubt be waiting for her. She blamed the pounding of her heart on the fear and shame that her mother would no doubt bring out of her. But there was no fear or shame. Only Jon’s scorching touch still lingering on the surface of her skin, and the hunger that sung in her veins.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it seems that I have a habit of expanding on one shots, which is fine. I mean you guys are obviously the drive for it and I was so happy with how many of you were asking for a continuation. Lucky for you I love writing this story and now I have an end goal for it in mind. Thank you so much for reading and enjoy!

It took only a few days after their confrontation for Sansa to be able to bare to look at him again.

She had been forced to apologize to Arya after being scolded near to death by her Lady Mother, which she did easily enough. Sansa had felt ashamed by her behavior towards her sister, and with the way she looked at her, all wide grey eyes and a pleading disposition, it seemed that Arya did too.

That still didn’t mean things were easy between them. Things have never been easy between Arya and herself, but there was a new effort to try, and that meant more to Sansa than anything.

She had still not spoken to Jon though. It was hard to imagine doing so, and if she were being honest, no one truly expected it of her. And yet, thoughts of his strong hands clasped around her arms with a bruising strength and his smoky grey eyes persisted within her mind. It was so, so strange and new to her.

She knew that from that moment on, she was no longer the same girl. Jon, without even trying, had awoken something foreign within her. Some new ferocity that she wasn’t even aware she had. And yet, she had no idea what it was, why she felt so strange, and why thoughts of Jon left her feeling breathless and bothered.

In a way, she almost hated him for it, but for as long as she’s known Jon, she has never been able to hate him. Not truly anyway. He had a gentle disposition and the kindest eyes that she had ever seen.

Aside from Robb and Father, no man or boy treated her so respectfully.

Sansa looked down at her hands, at her lithe fingers and the new handkerchief she was weaving for Father. _No man,_ she thought, for even when Sansa had called him a nameless bastard, he still managed to apologize in that stilted and bumbling way of his.

A knock at the door made her look up to see Robb standing at the entrance of her mother’s solar. A wide grin adorned his handsome face and his arms were folded across his broadening chest.

Sansa smiled at the sight of her favorite brother, feeling a familiar rush of affection bloom in her heart. She stood, setting aside her work, and came to embrace him. 

Robb accepted her affection with ease, and Sansa felt pleased that her brother still loved her after seeing her at her worst moment. He pulled away first, though he kept his hands at her shoulders.

“Father calls you to his solar, sweet sister. I believe he wishes to banish you from Winterfell for your horrible transgression,” Robb said cheekily, using his “Lord's Voice" in his attempt to mock her. Sansa scowled at him, lightly slapping his chest as her cheeks blushed prettily.

“Don’t mock me, Robb. You know I’m still embarrassed about what happened with Arya,” Sansa muttered, looking away from Robb’s bright blue eyes. They were so similar to her own. His hands softly rubbed at her shoulders, his own way of apologizing, she supposed.

“I know, sweetheart. I’m sorry, but I was serious about Father calling you. He needs to speak with you and Arya, I think.”

Sansa groaned loudly, slumping against her older brother’s chest, her face buried in shame. “Why does everyone seek to continuously remind me about what happened? Can I not live in peace?” She asked and felt Robb’s fingers touch the underside of her chin.

He lifted her face towards his in order to peer into her eyes. His gaze was pitying, and if she was reading him correctly, a bit amused. She felt indignation flare in her chest at the sight of it, but she forced it down, not wanting a repeat of the events that happened just days ago.

“Sansa, I’m sure Father and Mother have forgiven you. I think they recognize how hard you and Arya are trying at attempting to get along,” Robb said, tapping her chin with his finger.

Suddenly though, his eyes narrowed slightly and his lips pursed a bit as if something bothered him. “Father also mentioned calling upon Jon. I wondered why but he didn’t answer me.” He watched her closely as he said this and Sansa tried not to freeze at the mention of Jon’s name.

Due to the closeness of their relationship, Robb was always exceptionally good at reading Sansa’s emotions, a trait she appreciated most times. And yet, as she stood there, her heart pounding a bruise against her rib cage, she couldn’t help but loathe it.

“Did he? I don’t see why,” was all she said, praying to the old gods and the new that he would not see through her calm.

Robb looked at her through narrowed eyes for seconds more before bringing Sansa in for a short, affectionate peck upon her lips. He pulled away, smiling at her sweetly. No longer was he the suspicious young man from moments before, but her precious knight of a brother instead. He turned away from her and walked out the door yelling, “Be good!” as he went.

Sansa sighed once she saw him saunter out and placed her hands over her frantic heart. Tears burned at the corner of her eyes in her confusion.

Jon was just her half-brother, a boy she barely knew. How could he make her feel so anxious at just the thought of seeing him again?

 _But he is no boy_ , a voice whispered in the back of her mind. _A_ _boy does not look the way he does_. “No,” she whispered to herself. Jon Snow was a man now.

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa arrived at her Father’s solar just minutes after Robb left. She greeted him with a sweet kiss upon his cheek and reveled within his gentle warmth as he pulled her in for a quick embrace.

Arya came through the door just seconds after with Jon Snow, her practical shadow, trailing after her. Sansa’s heart stuttered at the sight of him, and she could see a subtle blush form on his cheeks when he noticed she was there too.

 _He looks handsome,_ she thought and then brutally dismissed the observation. _Robb is handsome too_ , she reminded herself desperately. She felt as if she was trying in vain to convince herself of something she wasn’t totally sure she was aware of.

Sansa left her father and came to stand beside her sister, ignoring the fact that Jon stood on the other side of Arya. He was quite easy to ignore, for he was as still as a statue. Sansa was almost sure that he hadn’t even breathed once since he entered the room.

Father looked at the trio standing before him and Sansa hoped he wouldn’t see how nervous she was.

"You all must have an inclination as to why I called you here,” he said and all three of them nodded. Father nodded back at them sharply and leaned back in his chair a bit to peer at them further.

“We’re a family,” he said. “And although family can fight, it doesn’t mean that it should go ignored. You are all a pack, every last one of you, and you will act like one.” Sansa’s father stood from his chair and his already stony face looked even graver, which Sansa knew was how he appeared whenever he was preparing to say one of his famous phrases. “When the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives,” Lord Stark said as he came to stand before his children.

He looked between Sansa and Jon now. “I know about your quarrel as well. Robb told me about it and I also know that neither of you apologized. I will see more of an effort from you three to get along. This fight has opened my eyes to the problems I’ve neglected for far too long.” Her Lord Father’s face was stern as he looked upon them and Sansa knew that he meant every word he said. There would be no avoiding Jon Snow.

Their father looked at them for a moment longer, before turning away, effectively dismissing them. All three of them filed outside of their father’s solar, saying goodbyes and _yes father’s_ as they went.

Sansa chanced a look over to where Jon was and was surprised to see him looking back her. His solemn face was unreadable as he stared at her, which was unusual for him. Jon may have inherited the hard, grave look of the Starks, but he was as open as a book to anyone that knew him. 

She wanted to look away from him and his arresting gaze, but she found that she could not. _Were his eyes always so lovely?_  she thought as her own eyes traveled over the planes of his somber face.

When the moment extended far longer than what she knew was proper, she went to turn away from him, but the stilted and awkward sounding of her name kept her in place.

“I’m sorry,” Jon said, his cheeks as red as her hair. Sansa smiled at him slightly and tried to ignore the skip in her heartbeat as his cheeks reddened further.

“I’m sorry too. What I said to you was wrong and unspeakably rude,” Sansa said, unable to meet his eyes.

“To be completely honest, I was afraid that you would hate me if you saw me again,” she said before releasing an embarrassed chuckle.

It was so strange to speak to him this way. She hadn’t remembered being so open with him in so long. Not since she was a child and ignorant of his status as The Bastard of Winterfell.

Perhaps that was why things were so awkward between them now. They were two strangers labeled as siblings who barely knew each other at all.

“I could never hate you, Sansa. Not for any reason,” he said softly, and Sansa’s heart fluttered in her chest.

Sansa spared Jon one last smile before turning to walk away from him, but a large hand wrapping around her delicate wrist stopped her.

Sansa looked down to where his hand was encircled around hers and marveled at the difference in their sizes. By how his long fingers enveloped hers and how callused they felt against the silken softness of her palm. When she glanced over to her half-brother, she could see he was rather transfixed by it too.

With an awkward jerk of his head, Jon returned his gaze back to her Tully blue eyes and cleared his throat abruptly. Sansa looked up at him and blushed slightly at how intensely he was watching her.

“My lady, if you don’t mind, I was wondering if you would join me for a ride tomorrow?” Jon asked and then winced as her eyes widened.

“But its fine if you don’t want to!” He said hurriedly and moved to pull away from her, but Sansa grabbed his hand before he could.

A million thoughts raced through her mind. All of them concerning how her mother would react, but Sansa pushed them aside. She could always blame her father’s demand for them to get along better if she got in trouble.

“Yes,” she said, trying to ignore how needlessly breathy her voice was as she spoke. “Yes, I’ll join you for a ride.”

Jon’s eyes were wide and Sansa tried not to notice how endearing he appeared as he looked down at her in surprise. She felt his hand squeeze hers slightly as he moved to pull away and ignored how even when their hands were free of each other’s grasp, their fingers still lingered to touch.

Their gazes were locked for seconds longer, the moment as still and as fragile as a bird’s injured wing. With one last lingering look shared betwen both siblings, Sansa and Jon turned away from one another. The wall of their separate stations erected between them once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Btw everyone in this story is older than their book counterparts by at least three years. One year in the show. This means that Sansa is 14, Jon and Robb are 17, Arya is 12 and you guys know the rest.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lmao I made a reference to the song Jolene because I saw it used for a Sansa edit. I had a lot of fun writing this so enjoy!

Sansa was startled awake the next day by the sight of two luminous eyes peering deeply into her own. She sat up in bed with a shriek, nearly head butting her sister as she went.

“Arya!” Sansa cried, clutching her sheets over her frantic heart. “Why are you in here?” She continued, watching as her sister neared her again, an unreadable expression on her face.

“Is it true you’re meeting with Jon today?” Arya asked quietly as she sat on the edge of her sister’s bed, blissfully unaware of Sansa’s growing anxiety at her question.

Sansa’s heart jumped in her throat at her sister’s inquiry, though she didn’t know why. For some strange reason, she expected her and Jon’s excursion to be something that was completely their own. Weirdly enough, she felt a small sting in her chest knowing that it wasn’t. However, perhaps it was best that Arya knew. Lest her mother think it was more improper than what it truly was if she ever happened to find out.

“How do you know about that?” Sansa questioned and a look of exasperation crossed Arya’s pretty features. “Really? You’re clueless if you don’t think that Jon tells me everything,” she said, confirming Sansa’s earlier suspicions.

Sansa sighed, staring at her sister in silence, frantic thoughts racing through her mind, her chest queerly tightening with each passing beat of her heart. “You know that don’t you?” Arya asked quietly, breaking the strained quiet that stretched between them. “Know what?” Sansa questioned.

Arya scooted closer to where she sat and with the lack of distance, Sansa could see the tears that crowded the corners of her sister’s eyes and the turmoil of jealousy that swam beneath it. Suddenly, Sansa understood.

Sansa reached out to her sister, wrapping her arm around Arya’s small and quaking shoulders. She was hit with the realization that she had never willingly given Arya affection like this before, and vowed to start doing so. “Arya, I’m not seeking to come between you and Jon. You both have such a special relationship, just like Robb and I,” Sansa said, her free hand combing through Arya’s dark brown locks, her voice soft and sweet like summer rain.

Arya sniffled quietly beside Sansa, her head coming to fall at her sister’s delicate shoulder. “I’m glad that you and Jon are trying to get along. I really am! But… he was just mine for so long. I don’t like knowing that he could like you better,” Arya said softly and Sansa could understand how she felt. Not that long ago, Father had been considering a match between Robb and their kin Alys Karstark. It took a long, sloppy kiss on her cheek and a stolen lemoncake from Robb for Sansa to come down from her jealousy. She still remembered what he said to her as he pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. “ _You’re my first princess Sansa. Remember that, my love.”_

Sansa pulled away from Arya, stooping slightly to meet her sister’s pretty eyes. “Whatever relationship Jon and I happen to develop, know that it will not ruin what you both have,” Sansa said and then smiled as Arya nodded along with her words.

“Now can you please get out? I need to get dressed and you’re getting the way of that.”

Arya scoffed and Sansa could feel them falling into the comfortable familiarity of their love and hate relationship. She smiled at the thought.

“Oh please, as if I haven’t seen you naked before. Or have you forgotten that one time-“A well thrown pillow, launched by Sansa, hit Arya in the face midsentence. Sansa’s cheeks were a flaming red. She didn’t know exactly what Arya was speaking of, as she had been embarrassed many times by her younger sister, but she had no desire to find out.

“Get out!” Sansa shrieked as Arya ran out of her room, cackling like a mad woman.

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa waited by the stables for Jon, petting her chestnut colored mare, aptly named Princess. A name which Robb tormented her for choosing when she was nine.

For a reason that she could not name, or wish to, Sansa decided to dress in her loveliest riding clothes. Her dress was Tully blue, a color which emphasized the color of her eyes beautifully, and her hair was braided in the Northern way, with added style for aesthetic purposes. All of this done by her hand maidens who questioned her playfully over who she was meeting. When she hesitatingly mentioned her brother, oddly enough she didn’t specify which, her maids quieted their teasing and shot her strange looks. She didn’t question herself as to why they did so. Sansa wasn’t sure if she could answer that.

The sound of someone awkwardly clearing their throat stilled her movements. She didn’t wish to turn around and the pounding of her heart made it unclear whether it was excitement or dread that made it so. Even still, she forced herself to turn and saw Jon standing before her, garbed in black leather riding clothes and tall black boots. Sansa knew of her half-brother’s desire to join The Night’s Watch with their Uncle Benjen. She wondered if his choice of clothing was a reminder to her or to himself, though she saw no need to be reminded of anything. This was a simple ride, nothing more.

“My lady, I am sorry for making you wait. I had woken up late and I rushed here as fast as I could,” Jon said hurriedly, taking in large gulps of air as he spoke. Sansa’s lips twitched at the mental image of Jon shoving on random dark colored clothes just to meet her on time. Her eyes lowered to the ground for a moment. Had he run all this way, from his room to the stables, just to see her? Sansa's porcelain cheeks suddenly flushed, and beneath her skirts, she could feel her knees start to weaken.

She lifted her lowered gaze to meet his lovely grey eyes. “Don’t concern yourself over that, Jon. I just arrived not that long ago. In fact, I was afraid I’d be late,” Sansa said, giggling at his relived face. “Is that true, my lady?” He asked and if Sansa was being honest with him, it wasn’t really. She had been waiting here for well over five minutes, but Jon’s face was so apologetic and endearing that a large part of her didn’t want to make him feel guilty over making her wait. And truly, what did it matter if she waited for him or not? He was just Jon Snow, her bastard half-brother. Sansa shook her head minutely. No, she decided silently. It didn’t mean anything at all.

“Yes it’s true, Jon,” she said, and then a part of her that sounded suspiciously like Robb and Arya told her to tease him, for Jon was always so easy to tease. Sansa widened her eyes and jutted her full lips, making herself appear more innocent and childish. “Do you think me a liar, Jon Snow?” She asked, her voice sorrowful and so, so sweet.

Jon’s eyes widened comically and his hands came up to rest awkwardly on her arms, his fingers making small circles on the exposed skin of her shoulders. “Of course not, my lady!” Jon cried desperately and Sansa’s lips wobbled with the effort to keep from laughing. Jon, clueless as he was of all things not regarding a sword, took that as the inevitable emergence of tears. His warm and callused hands came to rest upon her rosy cheeks and Sansa’s stomach lurched at the action.

“I’m sorry, Lady Sansa. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad,” Jon said contritely. She knew that she should tell him of her jest, but his warm hands and obvious concern for her made her tongue feel heavy in her mouth. Sansa’s smaller hands came to rest upon his larger ones, and with some great unacknowledged reluctance, she pulled them off.

Sansa lowered their intertwined hands to hang in front of them and let out the laugh that she had long been withholding. Jon’s eyes widened with confusion, which only made Sansa laugh harder.

“Oh Jon! Don’t you see? I’ve been teasing you, silly,” Sansa said through her giggles, bringing up one of her hands to wipe at the tears forming in the corners of her eyes. Jon’s wide eyes narrowed in mock anger, making Sansa’s heart swell with affection. Why did she neglect her half-brother for so long? Perhaps Arya had a point earlier. I would like for him to be all mine too, Sansa thought impulsively.

Sansa pulled her hands away from his grasp and tried not to feel disappointed at the loss of his warmth. “Well are we going or not?” She asked and Jon nodded.

She went to climb her horse as gracefully as she could, and then cursed her clumsiness when she almost stumbled as she tried to settle into the saddle. Curiously, Sansa looked over at Jon to see if he noticed and with a sigh, realized that he did. Jon, for all his cluelessness, could never be called unobservant.

Both of their horses trotted out of the stables, but when they reached the edge of the Wolfswood, Sansa deviously cried, “I’ll race you!” and then sped off.

Distantly, she could hear Jon Snow’s uninhibited laughter and felt herself smile at its sound. Her half-brother was always so melancholy and brooding. He was a far cry from Robb’s mischievous spirit and flamboyant tendencies. And yet they were true brothers and best friends. She could see why. Despite their differences, Jon and Robb complimented each other almost perfectly. Jon’s shyness tempered Robb’s extreme extroversion and Robb’s effortless joy almost always rubbed off on Jon.

Sansa’s reverie was interrupted by the nearing sound of hooves. Her eyes widened slightly, and yet again she cursed her inability to ride horses as well as her siblings. In vain, she kicked at her horse to speed up, but Princess, as ladylike as her mistress, refused to meet Sansa’s demands and stayed at her pace.

With a loud and wild laugh, almost a howl really, Jon and his raven colored horse sped past her, leaving her in the dust. Sansa sighed in dismay but then decided that if losing was at the price of hearing Jon so happy, then she wouldn’t mind doing so again.

Jon stopped ahead of her, seemingly taking pity on her inherent lack of athleticism. Sansa tried not to feel too bothered by that.

She paused her horse beside him and went to slide off the saddle, nearly taking it with her as she went. Sansa glared at the stupid piece of leather, trying to remember why she agreed to embarrass herself this way.

“I take it you don’t ride much?” Jon asked, his tone playful, almost outright laughing in her face as she turned to glare at him. “If you wish to humiliate me, Jon Snow, then I can just leave right now,” his half-sister threatened, not truly meaning it, but wanting to guilt him all the same.

Jon sighed, his hand reaching out to grab hers, her bristly countenance softening as she felt his touch. “I’m sorry, my lady,” he said, “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

A million responses swam through Sansa’s head, each one more prickly and mean than the last, but before she could think to stop herself, she said, “Sansa. Call me Sansa.”

Surprise colored Jon’s face and Sansa tried not to hate herself for doing this. She had set this barrier between herself and this lovely man when she learned of his status. All because she wanted to be a proper lady. Look at what you missed, Sansa thought bitterly, just so that you could gain your mother’s approval. Never again, she vowed, never again would she spurn Jon’s love and affection, not when he had so much to give.

“Sansa,” he said, his voice low and gravelly and the girl in question, with her pounding heart and fluttering stomach, thought he had no business saying her name like that.

“So,” Sansa said, terminating the tension filled silence between them. “What do you have planned for us today?” She asked, watching Jon’s dark grey eyes widen at her inquiry. “Uh… I didn’t really, um, plan beyond this point…” He stuttered, his voice fading as his embarrassment grew.

Sansa nodded silently, holding in a nervous giggle. She didn’t know what to say to him. She never did, and with how he was peering at her from beneath the fringe of his raven hair, Sansa could see that he didn’t either.

“Would you like to just talk then?” Sansa asked and then immediately winced. Of course he wouldn’t, you idiot! She told herself harshly. However, Jon, as was his habit it seemed, surprised her by nodding slowly.

Sansa’s eyebrows raised, and in a voice that was entirely too suspicious to be casual, asked why. Jon shrugged as his answer.

“You like it.”

“What does it matter whether I like it or not?”

“Why wouldn’t it?”

Sansa was the one to shrug now. ”Septa Mordane says it is much more important to mind the wants of a man rather than his lady,” Sansa explained, unconsciously adopting the self-important tone her Septa always used.

Jon shook his head as she spoke, rejecting whatever she was saying outright, which confused her. Earlier when she had said this to Theon, he agreed whole heartedly.

Sansa tilted her head to show her befuddlement. “That’s strange. I repeated that to Theon some time ago and he happened to agree with it. I thought all men thought that way,” Sansa said, watching as Jon grimaced at her words.

“If all men thought the same way that Theon did, then the world would be in utter peril,” Jon said and then perked up as Sansa giggled.

The girl held her stomach as she laughed, and watched in delight as Jon joined her in her mirth. The two siblings stood there for quite some time, laughing uncontrollably. And if one stopped laughing before the other, they immediately descended into another fit of giggles at the sight of their other sibling nearly rolling on the floor.

Sansa wiped at the corner of her crying eyes, forcing down another round of laughter in order to look at her half-brother. Jon stood a few feet away from her, his raven curls tussled from their ride and his cheeks bright red under his black stubble. He was so handsome, Sansa thought again, but did not try to stop herself from thinking it. There was no point denying the truth when it was right in front of her, chuckling under the white sunlight.

Jon looked at her again, his eyes soft and fond as they met hers. Her cheeks pinked prettily under his tender gaze and they stood in silence again, though this one felt different. It was comfortable and there was no awkwardness, with no desire to fill it with meaningless words to pass the time. It just was, and it was beautiful in its simplicity.

With great reluctance, Sansa broke away from his loving gaze and looked upwards. The sun was high in the sky, shining brightly through the cracks of the red leaves, and Sansa knew that her lessons would be starting soon.

“We should get going,” Sansa told him, trying not notice how disappointed she sounded. Jon nodded, agreeing with her, and went to his horse. Sansa followed his lead, and without trying to hide her incompetence, scrambled hurriedly onto Princess. For some unspoken reason, Sansa didn’t want her mother to notice her absence.

Without racing this time, Jon and Sansa arrived back at the courtyard before it could truly become bustling, which Sansa felt grateful for. They stopped their horses when they reached the stables, and Sansa watched as Jon gracefully slid off his horse. Just as she was preparing to potentially fall from her own, Jon reached her side and wrapped two of his strong hands around her slim waist.

With bated breath, she felt Jon easily lift her off Princess, who shuffled at the loss of her weight. A part of her marveled at his strength, but the other part of herself, the part that had seen Jon’s back muscles shift sinuously as he fought Robb shirtless, was unsuprised by it.

An odd, low heat settled into the bottom of her belly and Sansa tried not notice how empty and aching it made her feel. Slowly, Jon Snow set her on the floor, but he did not immediately remove his hands from her person. Sansa, strangely, desperately, almost wished he wouldn’t.

Eventually though, for propriety’s sake or for his own, Sansa could not say, Jon released her. In his eyes swam the same heat that was there just four days ago and once again, Sansa felt breathless at the sight of it. It was so, so strange, Sansa thought, that so much could be communicated through eyes alone when words would leave much to be desired.

 _Love is shown through the eyes,_ she remembered her mother telling her once when she was a child. It was so long ago, and yet, for some reason unexplained, she was thinking of it now.

Sansa stepped away from him, breaking the silence and the spell, and cleared her throat. Jon snapped to attention, turning bright red as he did so.

“I have to go to my lessons now. If I stay any longer I’m afraid I’ll be late,” Sansa said, oddly compelled to explain herself to him. Jon nodded once. “I have to leave now too. I’m going to be fighting Theon today, I think, which is always fun,” he said and Sansa giggled at that.

Jon and Theon, for all that they both adored Robb, could not stand each other and had never been shy at expressing that.

Sansa smiled at Jon, her lovely face as radiant as the morning sun. “I wish you all the luck in the world then. The gods know how much you need it,” Sansa said teasingly and Jon barked a laugh. “I thank you for your kind words, Lady Sansa. I believe it is no secret how superior of a fighter Lord Greyjoy is,” Jon said sarcastically, causing his half-sister to giggle sweetly.

With one small wave, Sansa walked off, heading to her rooms to change from her riding clothes. She decided not to question her small, secretive smile or her fluttering heart as she went.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the really underwhelming fight scene. I can't write action scenes for shit. Okay I'm really excited about this chapter. This is the chapter where things really start to move along. Also the updates might not be as fast for the next coming days. Hurricane Irma is coming my way and it's probably gonna take away power for a little while. Even still, enjoy!

Sansa was walking out of her lessons with her sister when she was able to speak to Jon again. After their ride it was hard to find a moment to themselves, much less interact with another person not in their immediate circle. Which they were not, despite their growing efforts.

Even still, Sansa found herself missing her half-brother. The day of their ride opened her eyes to a part of him she had barely seen before, a part that she knew he only showed to either Robb or Arya. She missed his smile the most. His eyes would crinkle in the most adorable way and his full lips would stretch to show his pearly white teeth. Jon’s entire face would change when he smiled. The entirety of his normally somber and broody countenance would shift to reveal something beautiful underneath. Sansa was honored he let her see it.

“Did you hear that Jon fought Theon the other day?” Arya asked conversationally as she tried to keep up with her sister’s long strides. “Mhm,” hummed Sansa, before continuing with, “Jon told me after our ride.” Arya made a sound at the back of her throat and when Sansa looked over to where her sister was, she could see her beaming proudly. “So I take it he won then?” Sansa asked, her tone light, a small and proud smile gracing her beautiful face. The idea of Jon winning made her feel pleased somehow, which was unusual, as she never did care much for fighting.

Arya nodded vigorously and Sansa chuckled at her sister’s mood. From the way she was acting, she would think that her sister won the fight herself. “Of course he did. Jon could beat anyone,” Arya said and Sansa raised her eyebrows disbelievingly. “Arya, I know that Jon is your favorite brother, but that hardly means that he could beat everyone,” Sansa commented and Arya immediately shook her head.

“That’s because you haven’t seen him. He could beat anyone here, even Father.”

“No he couldn’t. That’s ridiculous!”

“No it isn’t. You have to see him to know. He’s a better fighter than Robb, I think.”

Now it was Sansa who shook her head, her cheeks turning pink as she grew indignant. She felt a strong need to defend her dear Robb. “Robb’s a wonderful fighter! He’s to be the Lord of Winterfell one day, so he has to be. If I didn’t know better I’d say you wanted to marry Jon or something with how you speak of him,” Sansa said, half in jest and half in actual disgust at the thought of Arya and Jon. She knew she was joking, but her skin suddenly felt crawly and feverish. Sansa was almost compelled to claw at her porcelain skin just to rid herself of the bothersome sensation.

Arya gagged in an exaggerated fashion, retching several times as Sansa watched her with an unimpressed stare. “That’s disgusting! If you ever say that again, I’ll vomit out my whole stomach. I swear I will!” Arya threatened once she finished her terribly unladylike vomiting simulation.

Sansa rolled her eyes. “First of all I’m pretty sure it’s impossible to vomit out your whole stomach. Second of all, I was kidding, so what does it even matter?” Sansa said, as she attempted to walk faster than the steady pace they were currently going at.

Arya came up beside her, nearly jogging to keep up with Sansa’s brisk strides. “Well anyway, if you don’t believe me then we can just watch them right now,” Arya said and Sansa turned to look at her, pausing as she did so. “How do you know they’re fighting right now?” Sansa asked suspiciously, her question causing her sister to laugh. “What do you think I do whenever I skip lessons? Sew in a different room?” She asked sarcastically, before she grabbed a startled Sansa by her wrist and tugged her in the opposite direction.

“I never said yes!” Sansa shouted, panting as she ran along behind her sister. Once again this week, she cursed her lack of stamina. Arya, despite her diminutive height, was a swift runner and extremely athletic. Several times, her sister resorted to dragging her in order for Sansa to keep up. “My gods, you’re slow!” Arya jeered mockingly, cackling at her sister’s insulted face.

“Well not all of us are born with the talents of a deer!” Sansa argued as she yanked her sore wrist back, her face hot with righteous anger, which only made Arya laugh harder. Sansa frowned severely. Somehow, she found Jon’s mirthful laugh much more appealing than that her sister’s. Though, she discovered that generally Arya’s mirth came from picking at her, so perhaps that was where the distinction came from.

However, despite her external resistance, she was very eager to see her half-brother, though she couldn’t really see why. She chalked it up to never before seeing him fight, and this being a new experience.

Arya, in a much gentler manner, grabbed her hand, slipping her fingers into her own. Sansa smiled down at their intertwined hands and fought the urge to pull her little sister into a hug.

Arya lead her closer to where the training yard was, and as they got closer, Sansa could hear the clashing of blunt steel blades and the sound of male grunts that accompanied every swing. Quietly, and with a finger to her lips, Arya brought her over to the fence to watch.

On the other side the yard stood Robb, Theon, and Jon. They were all shirtless and sweaty, and as they spoke, they casually swung their swords around in very fluid motions. Sansa, who had been a lady since she was three, felt her face heat up at their lack of dress. It was quite improper, she thought, as she flushed. After all if she walked around wearing only her small clothes, she would be labeled a whore!

“Jon!” Arya called loudly, her hands cupped around her smiling mouth. Their half-brother turned quickly, already sporting a grin as he heard his dearest sister’s voice. Robb and Theon turned around as well and joined Jon as he walked over to them. It didn’t seem as if he had noticed Sansa yet.

Sansa felt that familiar ache settle in her belly. When she watched Jon’s muscles shift under his skin as he sauntered over to them, it made her feel hot and feverish. Except this time her frustration was of a different kind than it was earlier with Arya. Instead of wanting to claw at her skin, she wanted it to be caressed and smoothed over by callused fingers. She glanced down at her small and delicate hands. They were as soft as silk and white like the bark of the weirwood tree. Instinctively, she knew that her own touch would be unsatisfying.

“Arya! What are you doing here?” Jon asked their sister fondly, his large hand falling upon Arya’s dark hair and ruffling it softly. “I came here to watch you fight and I dragged Sansa along because she said you were a terrible fighter," Arya said, straight faced even as she lied through her teeth.

Sansa’s face flushed in anger and she nearly turned to yell at her sister, until Jon looked over to where she was. She froze in place at his stare, and her heart nearly jumped out of her chest at the tender smile he sent her.

“Did she?” Jon asked Arya, though his eyes remained steadfast on Sansa’s. The feverish ache she felt doubled at his intense gaze, and in vain, she tried to force words out of her throat, to greet him at the very least, but she found none.

Love is shown through the eyes, she remembered again, and could not explain why.

“Hello, Jon,” Sansa said finally, relieved that she could say that much at the very least. “Hello, Sansa, I missed you after our ride,” he said, softly, and Sansa felt a queer kind of desperation clawing at her chest and heart. He was so, so confusing and Sansa hated what he could reduce her too. She wanted to ask what he meant by him missing her, because she missed him very much as well, and for reasons she couldn’t explain.

The moment was broken by Robb and Theon’s arrival, which made Sansa feel grateful. Her eldest brother was always a welcome sight, and now even more so.

“Sansa! What are you doing here, my love?” Robb asked her as he leaned over to give her a sweet kiss on the cheek. Sansa accepted his affection with her usual openness and enthusiasm, before replying with, “Arya brought me here.” Their brother looked over at their younger sister, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “Well would you look at that?” He said as he smiled at Arya.

“Sansa didn’t want to believe that Jon beat you in a fight,” Arya said simply as her way of explaining, and Robb laughed heartily in reply. “Well of course not,” he said using his gallant “Lord’s Voice” again, which caused all them to groan in exasperation. Robb wrapped his bare, sweaty arm around Sansa and dropped a loud, wet kiss at her temple. “My princess should always defend me, for I am her valiant knight!” Robb declared, holding his sister tight, even as she struggled fruitlessly in his grasp and squealed when he pressed more kisses to her hair.

Eventually, Sansa was able to wiggle out of her older brother’s hold, and even though she tried to feel angry, all she could do was smile at his eccentricities. Sansa smoothed down her mussed auburn hair, affection bubbling in her heart like lava.

“Am I going to see you fight Jon or not?” She asked as she crossed her arms, putting on a mask of impatience. Theon cackled at her haughtiness and swatted at her hair for good measure, and through the corner of her eye, she could see Jon viciously glaring at him. That confused her. Theon, despite Robb’s many threats, always managed to touch her in some way, and she didn’t remember Jon ever getting upset about it.

“Do you want to see me fight Theon?” Jon asked through gritted teeth, and though he voiced this as a casual suggestion, Sansa could see how genuinely eager he was at the prospect.

“Oy! Why do you want to fight me, Snow? Excited to get your ass kicked?” Theon asked, crossing his arms, his ever present smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. Jon’s already narrowed eyes turned to slits, and he stepped closer to where the other boy stood. “If I remember correctly, Greyjoy, it was your ass that was kicked the other day. Do you need a reenactment in order to better remember?” Jon asked snidely, and Sansa, gods forgive her, felt her blood heating at this angrier side of him.

Theon’s nostrils flared, and were it not for Robb, he would have lunged at the bastard boy. “My sweet sister came to see me fight Jon, so that’s exactly what we’re going to do,” Robb’s voice was pleasant as he said this, and his tone retained his usual lightheartedness, but his blue eyes shone with warning and flickered towards her often. As if he was seeking to protect her from seeing more bloodshed than necessary.

Sansa’s lovely eyes stung slightly, nearly overflowing with emotion. Her heart sung with love for her precious brother, for his protectiveness and adoration for her knew no bounds. Robb was truly the most considerate of them all.

Jon and Theon nodded stiffly, shooting each other glares as they moved to turn away from each other. Jon joined Robb as they moved to the training yard, both standing a little closer to the fence so that the girls would see them a bit better.

Her brothers circled each other slowly, shifting into their stances as they waited for the other to make their first move.

Sansa brought her hands to her frantic heart, equal parts nervous and excited to see her siblings fight. Next to her, Arya had her fingers gripping the wood of the fence, leaning forward in eager anticipation for the spar that was about to happen.

After moving around each other for a few seconds more, Robb made the first move, swinging his sword around to cut at his opponent. Jon, sensing this, side stepped the attack, bringing up his steel blade to meet Robb’s. Her brother swung again at Jon, harder this time, sweat starting to run down his back due to exertion.

Sansa watched this all with a nervous kind of excitement fluttering arround in her abdomen. The concentrated look on Jon’s face as he fought entranced her. He looks so calm, she thought, and he did. His expression was completely serene, save for the small twitches that came across his features every now and again. He was so fluid when he fought, like a dancer, and when Sansa looked down at his feet, she could see the same movements she did when she performed a new routine for her mother. Arya was right, Sansa realized, Jon really was made for fighting.

Her chest felt tight, like it was being crushed by the severity of all the overwhelming sensations he brought on. She couldn’t even put a name to it there were so many. It was swimming around her brain, her belly, throughout the entirety of her being. She felt like she was being enflamed by something intense and new and frightening. She was consumed by fire, by some unnamed heat, and there were no words to describe the sensation. It just was. It raged throughout the whole of her.

It was that ache earlier, she realized. The familiar feeling of dissatisfaction that started the day Jon Snow held her in grasp and pulled her tight across his chest.

A sudden and torrential feeling of shame slammed into her, overshadowing her earlier want for pleasure, her newfound attraction. That’s what it was wasn’t it? Sansa thought, horrified down to the depths of her toes, to the tips of her wanting fingertips. She wanted him, Jon Snow, the boy she neglected and ignored, her half-brother.

Bile forced itself up her throat, burning her more than dragon fire could, but it was doused by the icy feeling of her self-loathing.

Sansa pushed away from the fence, tears blurring her vision, her heart lodged in her acid throat. She was a vile creature, not worthy enough to be a lady.

Sobs built up in her chest as she ran back to her rooms, pushing past confused servants. She couldn’t bear to look at others knowing what she was and what she felt for Jon Snow. Your half-brother, a sinister voice snidely reminded her, and she could feel the bile rising again.

It flooded her mouth in a disgusting current, and Sansa fell over her chamber pot, retching into the gilded bowl. Heaving out the contents of her stomach for what felt like hours, seconds, days.

When she finished, Sansa collapsed against her stone cold floor, sobbing for all that she was worth. She kept her eyes closed shut, for the stone was the same color as Jon’s eyes, and Sansa did not want to think of Jon Snow.

He was her pleasure and her shame and her half-brother. The gods were cruel indeed.

“Vile,” Sansa whispered tearfully, her voice cracked and strained.

“Vile girl, a vile creature. Vile, vile, vile...” She said once again, before falling into the ocean of black that hid behind her eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very dark chapter. Sansa is in a very bleak place right now because of her realization, and it leads her having extremely worrying thoughts. If you are triggered by death or suicidal musings than I ask you to skip this chapter. If you're not, then enjoy! I really wanted to update this story before Irma because I really don't know when I can update again.

After her discovery, Sansa locked herself in her chambers. She couldn’t bear to leave her room knowing what she was, what she knew. The idea of going outside and pretending to be the lady she wasn’t had scared her and shamed her beyond reason. Her mother raised her to be dutiful, her father brought her up to be honorable, and she disappointed them both. For so long Lady Catelyn kept her away from Jon Snow, and for years she went along with her decision without question. Perhaps she knew what I would become, Sansa thought despairingly as she brought her furs over her face. Mayhaps her mother knew what would happen if she let them interact with anything more than practiced formality, though Sansa also knew that if her mother ever found out, she’d try to blame her daughter’s sin on Jon.

This revelation was no fault of Jon’s. Her half-brother was honorable and good, and he would never dishonor her so, nor himself. It was she who was sinful and tainted. Sansa pressed her face against her soft pillows, sobbing in earnest.

I will never let them see me for what I am, she vowed silently as tears trailed down her face. She would die before she ever let her family see what she’d become, and in her heart of hearts, Sansa very much wanted to die.

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning started with a knock to her door from her handmaidens as it usually did. Sansa lied on her side, her vacant eyes puffy and red, staring at the canopy above her bed. She wanted to dismiss the girl waiting by her door. There was no need to get ready for the day when there was none to be found. Not in her heart anyway. Winterfell was filled with laughter and happiness, and innocence could be found within the warmth of the walls. She did not deserve to see the light of day. Sansa Stark, retched monster that she was, didn’t deserve to see much of anything.

The knocking at her door persisted and Sansa could feel how nervous the young maid was becoming. “Lady Sansa?” the girl said, her voice sounded worried as it drifted in through the door. “Are you alright Milady?” She continued, her knocking starting to escalate in sound and in frequency.

Sansa ignored her, and did not open her mouth to order the girl to leave. There was no point in doing so. They would all learn to leave her in peace eventually.

She was right. After a couple minutes more, the handmaiden walked away from the door and Sansa did not hear her again.

 

* * *

 

 

Arya tried to reach her next a few hours later, though the sounds she was making with her knuckles could not be called knocking, for it was much closer to her banging her fists against the door. Sansa pressed her hands over her ears, tears leaking out of her eyes, a persistent and gnawing ache in her stomach. She had not eaten yet and she felt too numb to be hungry.

“Sansa! It’s Arya! Get up you idiot! Everyone is worried sick, even Jon!” She cried through the door, and Sansa’s heart squeezed at the mention of her love’s name, the reason for her shame. She wanted to yell at her sister, to curse her to hell and tell her to leave, but her lips did not move. Her mouth did not widen to do anything more than to let out puffs of breath. Sansa wished they would not. She yearned for the sweet darkness that she fell into that first night, and she wished for it to consume her forever. With every breath she exhaled, Sansa infected the purity of Winterfell. Her disease would slowly rot her home until it was nothing but blackened stone and ash.

I want to die, she thought desperately, despairingly. If the gods were just, her heart would cease this very minute, and her family would be glad. Her taint was written across her as plain as ink. It showed when she looked at Jon, for her lust and affection would linger whenever she saw him, and worst of all, it showed between her thighs when thoughts of his capable fingers ran across her mind.

Sansa bit her pillow, sobbing in anguish, even as she pressed her legs tightly together to relieve that persistent and cursed ache.

The banging at her door continued, her sister’s voice becoming a desperate shout the longer Sansa did not respond. And her older sister did not make a sound.

 

* * *

 

 

The last time that day someone ventured to her door, it was dinnertime and it was her mother. “Sansa, darling,” She called through the door, her mother’s voice achingly sweet. It made Sansa feel worse. Her actions were worrying her parents and she knew that, but a day of not consuming any food or water had taken its toll on her body. She could not move if she tried, and she very much did not want to.

It may seem reckless now, but it would be better for everyone if they just let her go through with her plan. They made feel sad for a while, yes, but they would understand in the end. They would need to, for a monster like her had to be killed, and it would be by her own hands if necessary.

All the monsters in the stories were defeated by gallant knights, Sansa thought blearily, a night of tossing and turning and tears catching up to her. Perhaps I can be the knight and the beast, Sansa mused weakly and drifted into that blessed darkness, her mother’s worried words a lullaby for her troubled mind.

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa woke the next morning because of the painful sensation of her stomach eating itself, searching for the nourishment she so cruelly denied it.

She tried to ignore the pain she felt, convincing herself that she was only doing what needed to be done.

Is honor always so agonizing, she pondered, and then decided that it was. Love and pleasure was easy and effortless, which was why so many followed their passions and abandoned their duty. Sansa was taught to be a dutiful girl, an honorable lady, and her dedication to those two principles would show most clearly when her parents would find her freezing corpse.

Determined to be a good girl, Sansa nestled down into her warm furs and closed her eyes, once again falling into slumber.

 

* * *

 

 

She woke again during the night. It was colder than usual, and yet she curiously felt sweaty and flushed. Sansa could not discern why.

The agonizing ache in her belly had faded into a lingering sting, but Sansa could ignore that.

There was a knocking at her door again, and had she any energy left in her body for it, Sansa would have rolled her eyes at her family’s stubbornness. When would they learn that was she only doing what any heroine in the songs would do? They would see in the end, she thought, they only needed to wait.

The knocking at her door was different somehow, for it did not escalate in sound as the others did. This one was desperate in its entirety.

“Sansa, my love, open the door,” The voice called to her pleadingly, and Sansa’s blood froze when she realized who it was. Her dearest brother stood at the other side of her door, his face twisted in worry, his heart hammering against his broad chest.

Sansa shoved herself under her furs, determined to ignore her brother. If anyone could convince her to abandon any plan of hers, it was Robb, and Sansa would allow herself to forgo this one. I need to do it, she thought madly, I need to die to rid my family of this dishonor.

Robb’s already loud knocking escalated into him furiously banging his fists against the door. It sounded as if he would splinter the wood with his hands alone, so determined was he to protect his baby sister.

Sansa could hear his worried and frantic movements from within her room, his anxiety practically wafting into her chambers. Sansa tried to ignore him, pressing her feather filled pillows hard against her ears. She didn’t want to let him in, lest she infect him as well. She was a dirty and rotten thing. A sinful girl, and perversion ran through her blood like a disease. Without even knowing it was happening, she fell for Jon Snow, her half-brother. And here was Robb banging on her door like flames licked at his heels. What was another brother? What was another sin? She thought bitterly and sobbed against her pillow in anguish.

 

* * *

 

 

The next afternoon, Sansa could barely open her eyes. Her body was starved and weak, and she felt numb to every sensation around her. She was the living dead, a breathing corpse. Her lips twitched weakly, victory unfurling in her slowly beating heart. She was so, so close. All she needed to do was wait a couple days more, and then she would be gone. Her stained existence would linger no more and her name would be forgotten before long.

I am almost free, Sansa thought, as she drifted into the dreamy darkness where she felt nothing and could be nothing in return. She was unaware of the splitting of her locked door, of it being shoved open by the strength of one man.

Jon Snow ran into the room of his little sister, catching the scent of tears and vomit and a wish for death as he walked in. He saw Sansa lying on her bed, her furs wrapped around her still and pale body. For a wild, grief stricken moment, he thought she was a dead, for a living girl could never look so white in pallor. But when he neared her, Jon could see her pale lids fluttering, her soft chest barely moving as she exhaled shallow breaths.

Three days of food waited outside her door, rotting the longer it waited for her hungry mouth. Jon kneeled to where she was, and slowly brought his fingers near her beautiful face. Even while lying unmoving and stiff as in death, Sansa was still the most radiant thing he had ever seen. Slowly, and with a trembling hand, Jon ran one long finger across her smooth cheek, her skin as soft as satin. He was so in awe of her, this tempting creature that lied before him.

Jon wrapped two of his strong arms around his slumbering half-sister, gently lifting her to his broad chest, and holding her close to his racing heart. She felt so light, he marveled as he walked out of the room.

Maids waited outside of Sansa’s door, and as Jon neared, he ordered them to clean her chambers, his voice hardening into his own version of Robb’s “Lord’s Voice”. He could see their hesitance to follow a bastard’s order, but the command that exuded off of his impressive form moved them all the same.

With them gone, Jon pressed a long and lingering kiss against his sister’s still lips. They were as red as roses and twice as sweet, thought the bastard as he pulled her closer to his strong body, cradling her to him possessively. “What have you done, my sweet?” He asked her as he walked to the Maester’s quarters, fingering the loose crimson tendril of her hair.

Jon Snow had always been partial to red headed beauties after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you see how you were able to see into Jon's mind a bit? I did this for those of you that were asking for it and I think it gave some much needed insight on Jon's feelings and psyche as well.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really have all that much to say. I want to get out as many chapters as possible before the hurricane, because it might be coming tomorrow. Enjoy the chapter!

When Sansa woke again, her throat felt as if it had been scorched by fire, and she found that she couldn’t recall much. She turned her head slightly to her right side, catching a glimpse of crimson. She saw her mother sitting at her bedside, weaving a wreath. Sansa had seen that wreath before. Jon had it in his room when he was younger, hidden in the depths of one of his drawers.

Sansa coughed weakly, causing her mother to immediately look over to where she was. Tears filled Catelyn Stark’s beautiful blue eyes and Sansa couldn’t discern why. At her present state, she saw no reason for tears.

Her mother threw her wreath to her chair, rushing to her daughter’s side, sobbing as she took her into her warm embrace. “Baby, my poor baby, my precious darling,” Her mother muttered nonsensically into her hair, and Sansa tried in vain to remember why. Why was she in bed? Why did her mother hold her so desperately, cry into her shoulder so heartbreakingly? Sansa tried to feel frustrated, but all she felt was numb. Her stomach felt empty and her throat felt parched, drier than the red waste that stretched across Essos.

She tried to open her mouth, to speak, to ask questions, but all she did was croak. Catelyn immediately pulled away from her daughter, worry fixed across her face like it had been there for several days. She rushed to the other side of Sansa’s bed, while the younger girl fell down onto her pillows, weary and weak down to her bones.

Her mother came back with a cup of water, lifting Sansa’s head as she brought the rim of the glass to her dry lips. Drops of blessed moisture fell onto her parched tongue, and Sansa moaned at the euphoric sensation, reaching blindly to get more of her fill. Her mother pulled the cup away slowly, trying carefully not to spill any water. “Slowly, love, slowly. You don’t want to throw it up,” Catelyn said soothingly. Smoothing down the wild tresses of her daughter’s scarlet hair, rubbing her fingers over the warm feel of her skin. Tears threatened to fall again, but Sansa saw her mother attempt to force them back. Catelyn Stark had always been such a resilient woman.

Before Sansa could ask her mother what she was doing here, the door to her room burst open. Her father stood at the opening of the door, breathing harshly, tears swimming in the grey of his eyes. Like Jon she thought, and then with a gasp, Sansa remembered it all.

The starvation, the thirst, her selfishness. Her desire for death had been strong, and she attributed it to her rottenness, to her sin, when in actuality she was just trying to run away. How could I have been so stupid? Sansa thought as she brought her hands up to her quivering mouth. Look what I’ve done, she thought in a startling moment of clarity, sobs building in her quaking chest.

Sansa burst into tears, arms wide to accommodate her strong father. Ned Stark fell into his daughter’s embrace, his callused hands cupping her lovely face, crying as he realized what he could’ve lost. He nestled his head into Sansa’s sweet smelling red hair, arms wrapping tightly around her small body. “My sweet girl,” he rasped tearfully into the crook of her shoulder. “My precious pup,” he said, sobbing in earnest as his beloved wife joined the tender and desperate embrace.

“I’m sorry,” Sansa wailed despairingly, remorseful down to the depths of her heart, “I’m so sorry Daddy.” Her father brought them in even closer, and Sansa could barely breathe due to the force of his affection, but she welcomed it whole heartedly. If she had succeeded, she would’ve never felt her parent’s tender affection again, and her sobbing renewed in its vigor at the thought.

When Ned and Catelyn eventually pulled away from her, they didn’t immediately move away. Her father lovingly stroked her hair, softly, as if she was a skittish deer, and her mother cooed at her, wiping at every new tear that ran down her porcelain face.

They only moved away when Robb entered the room. Her brother stared at her for a few moments, and Sansa gazed back at him, shame making her sob harder. Robb looked desperate and angry, at himself or her, she could not say. He strode over to where she sat, roughly pulling her into his strong embrace. His arms felt like iron bands as they wrapped around her, and Sansa briefly thought that he would never let her out of his sight. Her mother called for him to be careful, but Robb ignored her as he grabbed her cheeks in his harsh grasp.

His hands were hard around her face, his features twisted with a painful sorrow. “Why?” He asked, his voice rough, his eyes wide and filled with an agonized desperation. “Why! Why! Why!” He shouted, leaning closer to her, sitting himself down in front of her. “Do you realize what you could’ve done! What would’ve happened! How I could’ve lost you!” He yelled in her face, and Sansa flinched as if he moved to hit her. Robb’s voice was pained and angry, breaking on the last syllable.

Robb’s handsome face scrunched up and crumbled apart, his eyes finally starting to leak tears. “Sweetheart, my love, why?” He asked, although this time there was no anger, just a resigned sadness. Sansa turned her face into his hand, sobbing with all her might. She still felt weak, but she was fueled by her heartbreak. Robb met her shamed eyes and shook his head softly. “If it wasn’t for Jon…” He said, trailing off in the middle of his sentence, unable to stand the thought.

Robb brought Sansa’s lovely face closer to his, dropping gentle kisses to every tear that fell from her sorrowful eyes. “I’m so sorry,” Sansa whispered as Robb pressed his lips lovingly to hers, their tears intermingling. Robb pecked her lips three more times, before bringing Sansa in for one more hug, clutching her to him desperately. “Never do that again,” he whispered into her hair, nosing at the soft skin of her temple. “Never leave me,” He said, and Sansa nodded fervently against his beating heart.

“Where is Arya?” She asked once she lifted her eyes, her face inches from Robb’s. Her brother cracked a smile, but it was still tempered by his sadness. “She’s outside with Jon. She almost lost her mind when she saw you earlier,” He said, his fingers rubbing at her wet cheeks.

Sansa moved to get up, to see her little sister, but a sudden light headedness had struck her almost blind. Robb tenderly grabbed her and settled her in bed. “You must wait. You haven’t eaten for a near four days,” Catelyn said as she left her husband’s warm embrace, and Sansa could tell that from the look in her eyes, she would have to explain her earlier foolishness.

Sansa nodded, grabbing at the bowl of broth her mother brought her, slowly slurping at her food.

 

* * *

 

 

Later on, Sansa was washed and dressed, which she felt grateful for. Four days of not bathing had taken its toll on her body and scent.

She walked slowly to the training grounds, to the place where her life had fallen apart, and looked for her sister. Sansa knew that she was with Jon. Arya would always go to their half-brother whenever she felt troubled.

She saw them “battling” in the middle of the yard, Theon standing off to the side. Sansa approached them cautiously, not wanting to further weaken her already fragile health.

Arya held a wooden sword, no doubt given to her by Jon, and furiously brought it down to where Jon gripped his own sword. It seemed as if Arya was doing most of the fighting in this scenario, as Jon merely side stepped whenever she moved to hit him. Her half-brother looked weary, and more somber than he usually was. Theon, in contrast to his usual cockiness and general loudness, was uncharacteristically quiet.

Sansa made a slight scuffling sound with the heel of her boot, which caused Theon to glance over at her, his eyes widening in surprise when he noticed her standing there.

“Sansa!” He cried, as he hopped over the fence and ran over to where she stood. Before he could think better of it, of whether or not this would be considered untoward of him or not, Theon pulled her in for a tight embrace. Laughing tearfully, Sansa reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck.

Theon had never truly been a brother to her, he desired her too much for that, but he had known her ever since she was a child of three, and had loved her because of that. Sansa never particularly liked him, he was always too brash for her tastes, but he was a fixture in her life, and Sansa appreciated him in her heart of hearts.

After a few moments, Theon pulled away from her, his mouth widening as if to say something, before he was interrupted. Arya, who had noticed Sansa when Theon called her name, had pushed the boy aside and pulled her sister in for a hug.

Arya clung to her sister tearfully, sobbing against Sansa’s shoulder. Sansa started to cry again as she wrapped her sister in for a hug as well. “I love you so much,” Sansa whispered against her sister’s soft neck, to which Arya responded by nodding furiously. “If you ever do that again, I’ll kill you myself,” Arya promised fiercely, causing Sansa to laugh weakly. Of course her sister would say that. Would she ever try to do anything else? Sansa thought, squeezing Arya tighter as she did.

Before long, the two girls pulled away from each other, wiping at their wet eyes as they moved farther apart. Sansa looked over at her half-brother, her chest swelling as gratitude flooded her.

Sansa lunged at him, bringing him into her embrace. Jon locked his arms around her lithe body in return, slightly lifting her off the ground as he held her. His sister pressed kisses to his bearded cheek, whispering thank you’s against his skin.

Jon accepted her kisses eagerly, returning his own when he could, pressing small tear-ridden pecks to her nose and cheeks. Sansa could feel an all-consuming love well up in her heart. Why did she ever feel ashamed to love a man like Jon Snow? He was the very best man there was, for he was brave and gentle and strong like any knight. Better than any knight even, she had learned herself not that long ago.

Finally, reluctantly, Sansa pulled away from Jon, dusting the snow off of his raven curls and reveling in his smile when he noticed. She felt eyes at her back, and turned slightly, warily, to find Theon peering between her and Jon, his eyes narrowed and thoughtful.

The reality of the nature of her and Jon’s relationship hit her, and she felt that old shame rising in her, but she suppressed it. Sansa vowed to herself in that moment that she would never frighten her family the way she did again. All she needed to do was hide her feelings for Jon, and then one day they would disappear.

Sansa nodded slightly. Yes that is what I will do, she decided. But even then, when Jon’s grey eyes locked on hers, that feverish sensation took over her body, and the promise tasted like ash in her mouth.

 

* * *

 

 

That night, Sansa waited for her mother. She didn’t get a chance to explain herself earlier, and Sansa knew that her mother would not forget to draw out the reasoning for her foolishness.

A knock on the door sounded, and before she could give permission, Catelyn walked in, a lingering panic swimming in her eyes. Sansa being the perceptive girl that she was, noticed this, and opened her arms to her mother, offering her sweetest smile.

Catelyn walked into her daughter’s arms, bringing her in to her chest, nuzzling her precious baby’s hair when she was close enough.

They stood like that for several minutes, basking in each other’s warmth, until Sansa’s mother pulled away, her lovely eyes shining like precious sapphires. Catelyn grabbed her daughter’s hand and walked her over to the bed that was placed in the middle of the room.

Sansa sat down on the bed and tried not to cringe as she did so. Memories of her hopelessness flooded her like a wretched current, and a part of her could not believe that she had once been so filled with darkness. But another part of herself, the side that still realized the sin of her affections, whispered for her to embrace that utter devastation, to leave everyone in the wake of her destruction, but Sansa shoved it away harshly. She had seen her father today, her mother, Robb, and the rest of her family. Sansa would never hurt them like that again for as long as she lived and breathed.

Her mother reached up, softly wiping away the tears that Sansa unknowingly shed. “Why?” She asked, and that question carried so much sorrow, confusion, and hurt. The girl felt overwhelmed by it.

She couldn’t tell Catelyn the real reason, for her mother would behead Jon Snow with her own hands if she knew. Sansa looked at her then, wilting under her mother’s loving gaze, and knowing without a doubt that she had to lie.

“I heard a wretched story the other day, Mother, from a maid that works in the kitchens,” Sansa started, surprised by how easily the lie fell from her full lips, but then again, the best lies were the ones that contained elements of truth, and this one did. Her mother nodded at her encouragingly, and Sansa sighed as if it was difficult for her to speak.

“Do Lords hurt their Ladies, Mother? Like they hurt their maids? Like husbands hurt their wives?” Sansa asked innocently, watching as her mother’s eyes widened at the implication. Even still, her mother cautiously moved closer to her, taking one of her daughter’s hands into her own. “What do you mean, my love?” Catelyn asked slowly, and Sansa sighed.

There was a side of her that was serious. She had heard horror stories of the ravishing of women by foreign armies, by wildling raiders, but it was not the true reason for her sorrow.

“I have heard men speaking before. Stable boys. I know I am beautiful and I know that men think so too. What if they…” Sansa trailed off purposefully, letting her silence speak for her. Catelyn griped her daughter’s hand, bringing it to her chest, meeting Sansa’s eyes resolutely.

“For as long as your father lives, for as long as Robb lives, no man will ever touch you. No man will ever hurt you,” Catelyn said fiercely, her Stark temper showing clearly as she spoke. Her mother was a real she-wolf now.

“You don’t know that,” Sansa said, and despite the fact that her story was a lie, she found herself believing her words. “Mother you saw it yourself. If anyone ever attempts to hurt me, if I ever try to hurt myself, then no one can stop it. No one can protect me. No one can protect anyone,” She said, her voice quiet.

“Is that why you tried, my love?” Catelyn asked softly, and Sansa nodded, lying with a new found ease. “I would rather die than let any man hurt me. And I know Father has been looking into marriage arrangements,” Sansa said, and found that she meant every word.

Her mother looked at her sadly. “I will tell your father of this. Know that he loves you darling. Understand that he would never willingly put you in harm’s way.”  
Sansa looked up, her eyes shadowed by the fringe of her auburn hair. “What if he doesn’t know?” She asked, and her mother kissed her forehead gently. “That is why he has me sweetling,” Catelyn said, before moving to the door and walking out, blowing a kiss to her as she went.

Sansa sighed when she left, pressing her hands over her racing heart. She found it concerning that she found it so easy to lie to her mother. More so that she actually believed half of what she said.

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa was startled out of her slumber hours later by the creak of her door. A tall shadow stood by the end of her bed, and Sansa’s heart jumped to her throat, a million terrible scenarios playing out in her mind, the conversation she had with her mother repeating itself in her head.

“Who’s there?” She asked, attempting to steel her voice, but failing miserably. The shadow walked closer to her side, and by the faint moonlight shining through her window, she could see dark grey eyes, almost bordering on black. She breathed a sigh of relief as fear drained out of her, but her heart retained its fast pace when she realized who it was.

“Jon! What are you doing here?” She whispered harshly, sitting up in her bed. Jon bent down to sit at her side, and Sansa shivered when she felt his warmth. “I came to see how you were,” Jon said quietly, his hand sliding across her furs to rest near hers.

Sansa looked down shyly, blushing on account to his proximity. “Thank you,” she said softly, tenderly grabbing his warm hands, sliding her soft fingers against his callused ones.  
Jon stayed silent, allowing her to play with his fingers, and pushing back at hers when he found enough courage to do so. “I was so worried,” he said lowly, and Sansa looked up to see him, his eyes staring deeply into her own.

Love was shown through the eyes, she remembered, and rubbed her soft hands against his.

“You were locked in your room for days and no one could get through to you. At first Lady Stark and Father chalked it up your… cycle.” Sansa flushed. “But then you didn’t show up to breakfast and then even Robb couldn’t get you out. Your mother was in hysterics and Father holed himself up in his solar to work off the stress, but I just had this feeling. This persistent little thing in the back of my mind. I broke into your room and I saw you and I thought you were dead,” Jon explained, gesticulating wildly with his free hand as he did, and it occurred to Sansa that this was the most she had ever heard him speak.

“Do you want to know the strangest thing though?” He said softly and Sansa nodded slowly, eager to hear what he wanted to say.

“Even then, even when I thought you were dead, you were still the most radiant thing I had ever seen,” He said gently, his tone stupefied and disbelieving, as if he couldn’t truly understand what he was saying.

Sansa’s heart battered near painfully against her rib cage. She was suddenly so aware of his proximity, of his deft fingers, of how handsome he looked under the light of the moon. If she looked closer she could see flecks of violet in his Stark grey eyes, and she wondered if he inherited it from his mother.

Jon looked down at her, his gaze intense and heated. A mirror of her own eyes she was sure. As if he didn’t have full control of his body, as if he was ruled by his passions and not his honor, he brought his hand up slowly. He cupped her delicate and rosy cheek, marveling at its softness, his eyes flickering to her open mouth.

Sansa leaned into his touch, and before she could stop herself from doing so, she turned her face in his hand, pressing a long and lingering kiss against his palm, exhilarated by his unsuppressed shiver.

She met his eyes again, and she felt heat pool in her abdomen. Jon’s eyes looked sharp and feral. Like a wolf, she thought, delighted by her observation.

“Sansa… I…” He said, and as if doused by freezing water, Jon stood up, slipping his hand away from her cheek. “I’m sorry My Lady,” he said hurriedly. Sansa thought that he looked as if he wanted to say something more, but before he could think to open his mouth, he was already striding to the door, closing it firmly behind him as he left.

Sansa stared at the door, the heat of his hand still lingering across her cheek, her lips still tingling from his touch. With a sigh, Sansa fell back on her bed, her heart racing in her chest, sleep far from her mind.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got power back! It took five days and every day I was eager to update. I absolutely love this story and during the storm I wrote this chapter so that I could post it as soon as I could. Thankfully, no houses were destroyed and aside from some places, there wasn't a lot of flooding. Due to some confusion, I have decided to clarify the situation and describe the relationship between Robb and Sansa in the end chapter notes. Enjoy!

After Sansa’s attempt to end her life, her family treated her differently. They still loved her to be sure, their teary reactions after she woke up proved that, but the degree of trust that she always had was lost. Her mother watched her with wary eyes now, and every night when she came in to brush her hair, her usual goodnight kiss was done much more lovingly, and her brush strokes were much softer. Her Lord Father ordered stacks of her favorite lemoncakes to treat her with for every meal, watching her carefully whenever she ate it, looking for a smile to grace her features. 

Sansa appreciated their attempts, truly she did. But whenever she saw her parent’s wary and hopeful looks, guilt swarmed in her chest and lingered there until they left. It almost made her dread to see their sad eyes. 

Even Robb was different. Her brother had always been very affectionate, to a point that bordered on excessive, but now there was something desperate in it. His gentle cheek kisses were harder and longer, and when he hugged her, it seemed as if he was afraid to let her go. As if she would disappear the minute she was free from his embrace.

The only one who was truly normal around her was Arya, who seemed to accept her return to grace with a relative ease. Which was why Sansa chose to spend time with her the most, surprisingly enough.

“You should really get out of there before the water gets cold,” Arya remarked, sifting through Sansa’s choice of clothes, while her sister bathed beside her. “I don’t want to,” Sansa said, a bit stubbornly, sinking into the gilded tub as her red hair spread out around her. Arya looked over at her, her hand pausing on a beautiful silk gown that Sansa never wore. Southern styles were too impractical for the frigid North, regardless of her Aunt Lysa’s well-meaning intentions. 

“Why not? You already smell like lemon enough as it is with all those lemoncakes Father gives you, and don’t even get me started on that lavender smell,” her sister gagged. “Ugh! That scent is going to clog my nose for the foreseeable future.”

Sansa ran the warm, clean scented water over her soft skin, huffing at her sister’s insults. “At least I bathe willingly! The gods know what Mother has to bribe you with to even get you near a bathtub!” Sansa said, holding back laughter as her sister’s face turned red with anger. 

Arya walked closer until she was nearly nose to nose with Sansa, who on account to being naked at the moment, felt very exposed. “You don’t seem to realize how vulnerable of a position you’re in right now,” Arya said deviously, a mischievous smile stretching across her face as she glanced to where Sansa’s dresses lied. 

“Arya no! You wouldn’t!” Sansa screeched, already knowing she lost when Arya ran to her bed, picked up the clothes, and sprinted out of her room.

“Arya, you beast!” Sansa yelled, briefly brought back to the pivotal moment that occurred just last week. Somehow, despite her anger, she felt the urge to laugh at the memory.

Her sweet sister Arya, kinder than a rabid wolf, left her exactly one piece of clothing, her dressing robe. Sansa fruitlessly tore her through her closet, looking for at least one dress. It doesn’t even have to be a pretty one, Sansa thought despairingly, but of course, Arya didn’t even leave that. 

Sansa looked towards her dressing robe, a beautifully embroidered piece of fabric made from white silk, and sighed in a resigned fashion. With a quiet grumble, Sansa walked towards her robe, shoving it on when she grabbed it. 

Sansa turned around to face her full length mirror, gasping in horror when she saw herself. Due to the light color of the cloth and the type of fabric it was, Sansa could see the outline of her developing form, and the water leaking from her hair served to make it even sheerer. 

The girl felt tears forming behind her closed lids, nearly spilling over. Her mother was most likely walking around the castle, busy with some duty or the other. Gods forbid if she had to ask her father, and Sansa didn’t even try to consider Robb. Her older brother would spend more time laughing hysterically at her wet form than actually doing anything to help her. 

Theon was too perverted, Rickon was too young, and Bran practically worshiped Arya. He would most likely aid her in hiding his older sister’s clothes if he knew.  
Sansa groaned dramatically, falling on to her bed as she did. 

Suddenly a knock on the door sounded and before Sansa could scream for them to go away, three young men walked into her room. Sansa cursed her mother then. Catelyn Stark had forbade her from locking her door for the foreseeable future.

Robb, Jon, and Theon all strode into her room, all similarly dressed in riding clothes, all of their eyes widening when they saw her lying on her bed, practically naked. 

Sansa, just as she expected, received three very different reactions. Theon’s eyes roved over her exposed body, panting like a dog in heat. Robb, her beloved brother, as she predicted, swiveled his eyes to her empty closet and nearly collapsed on the floor due to the force of his laughter, his finger pointing at her flushed face. Jon simply turned beet red, and immediately faced the other direction. She found that liked his reaction the most. 

Sansa sat up, leaned over the side of the bed, grabbed a loose satin slipper she had, and threw it at her brother’s face. Robb started laughing even harder, which caused Sansa to become angrier. “Get out!” She screamed furiously, another shoe in her hand ready to be launched. “Get out, you filthy perverts!” She screamed again, shoving them all out the door as she went, leaning against it when they were out. 

“You look very nice My Lady!” She could hear Theon call to her jeeringly. “Tell me, did you expect us to come to your room or you always that prepared!”

Sansa flushed up to the roots of her hair, and kicked the door with her foot. She could hear the moment that Robb stopped laughing, because the sound of someone getting hit echoed behind her, along with an indiscernible threat. 

“I’m sorry sweetheart,” Robb’s voice sounded, amusement still lurking between the pauses of his words. “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad,” he said. 

Horse shift, Sansa thought, but she didn’t say it out loud. She already looked unladylike. The last thing she needed was to sound that way too. 

“Arya stole my clothes,” Sansa said to him, unprompted, but feeling the need to explain anyway. “Is that so?” Robb asked, his tone still sounded amused. Sansa resisted the urge to kick the door again. 

“Yes. She was in here while I was bathing and she thought it would be a lovely idea to steal my clothing. Mind you! As I was naked and vulnerable,” she said, embarrassment and fury coloring her words. It was silent for a while, which Sansa took as them conversing over what to do. “She was with you while you were bathing?” Theon asked, and then this time was immediately punched again by both Jon and Robb. 

“Are you going to help me or not?” Sansa asked, folding her arms under her bust, desperately hoping they would say yes. “Of course, my love,” Robb said. “But then we’re going to have to leave someone here.”

“What! Why?” Sansa practically whined, nearly stomping her foot as she spoke. “You know why,” was all her brother said, causing Sansa to quietly scoff in annoyance. While Robb’s protectiveness was always endearing, and in this case, completely warranted, Sansa still grew irritated by the fact that she was being treated like a child. After all, she was almost fifteen, a woman grown. 

However, not wanting to drag this situation on any longer than necessary, Sansa conceded, saying a quiet yes to let her brother know. 

“Theon is coming with me. Jon could stay here with you,” Robb said sensibly, and yet Sansa’s heart began to flutter in earnest. She almost wanted to yell that Jon couldn’t stay here, not while she looked the way she did, not while she felt so strongly for him. But she could not. Jon had nothing to do with her sin, no matter which way she twisted it. Jon was honorable and good, and he would never hurt her. Sansa’s wretchedness was her own problem, not his. 

Robb and Theon walked away, their loud footsteps and conversation echoing as they left. Sansa felt awkward suddenly, the idea of Jon standing outside while she was almost naked caused her to feel strangely vulnerable. 

“Lady Sansa? Are you alright?” Jon asked quietly, his tone timid. Sansa almost smiled as she imagined him on the other side of her. He was probably shuffling his feet and blushing like a green boy, Sansa thought, amused. 

“I’m fine Jon. Just cold,” she said and she was. Despite the warmth the hot springs provided the walls of Winterfell, it was still the North. Even in the heat of summer it was necessary to wear furs to feel comfortable. 

“Oh,” Jon said awkwardly, his voice stilted and muffled due to the thick wood of the door. Sansa found herself wishing to see his face, to gaze at his grey eyes and watch them grow heated the way they did just the night before. A voice in her head screamed that this was dangerous, that this crossed the line in terms of what was proper, but strangely enough, Sansa found that she didn’t care. She wanted to see him and that was all the incentive she really needed. 

Sansa opened the large wooden door, locking eyes with the boy that stood in front of her. She was right. Jon was shuffling his feet and blushing. 

Before he could think to stop himself, Jon's eyes roved over her barely clad body, only stopping when his gaze met hers. Sansa felt herself becoming breathless when she was saw that look return to his face. That wild and tortured expression that haunted her the night before. 

“Come in Jon. I don’t feel comfortable knowing that you’re waiting outside my door,” Sansa said soothingly, reaching her hand out to grab his. Jon stilled in her grasp, a look of indecision clouding his handsome face. “It’s not proper Sansa. I have to wait here,” Jon said hurriedly, though his hand stayed wrapped around her own. 

Sansa smiled at him, seeking to calm him. She knew it was wrong to manipulate him the way she was, but even still she wanted him near her, and she knew that from how tightly his hand grasped hers, that he did too. “You are an honorable man Jon. If anything I would never let Theon inside. The gods know what he would try,” Sansa said chuckling, feeling an overwhelming sense of elation when she saw Jon snarl at her mention of the older boy. 

She swiped the pad of her thumb softly over his knuckles, watching through bated breath as his resolve weakened before her. “I trust you Jon,” Sansa cooed, her tone velvety and warm, her long eyelashes fluttering. Jon nodded slowly, and Sansa had to refrain from clapping her hands at her minor victory. 

Jon walked into her room, blushing as he tried to keep from looking at her. Sansa almost wished that he would. She loved that feral twist his features would do every time he so much as glanced at her. 

He shuffled over to her bookshelf, his finger running over the words of a particular volume. Sansa watched him curiously. “Do you enjoy to read Jon?” She asked as she tightened the silken straps of her robe, noticing that her skin was becoming more exposed as she moved. 

Jon picked up the book he was studying, turning the large tome over in his hands as he regarded her. “Not especially. I prefer sword fighting. I wish I did read more though, if only so that I could say half the fancy words that you do,” he said, chuckling when he saw her shocked expression. 

Sansa narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you teasing me Jon Snow? You must know that it is a great offense to jest with a highborn lady so candidly,” Sansa said, moving closer to where the bastard boy stood. Jon laughed, his gaze meeting hers, challenging in a way that exhilarated her. “I’m afraid that a bastard such as myself can’t help teasing this lady in particular. Her eyes narrow so adorably when he does,” Jon said cavalierly, ducking when Sansa suddenly launched a pillow at his head. 

Her heart beat in her chest with a constant staccato rhythm. She found herself enjoying their banter. It brought her an insurmountable joy to see Jon so carefree around her, as if he was unafraid of what she thought about his true self and emotions. It made her smile. 

“You’re a fiend Jon Snow!” She cried at him, laughing mirthfully as she did. Jon tucked the book under his arm as he approached her, grabbing her hand in his. Sansa stopped laughing when she felt the callused skin of his palm rasp against the silken skin of hers. She looked up at him, her eyes shining like stars, her breath stuttering in her suddenly very full chest. 

His grey eyes were fond as he gazed down at her, his thumb moving softly over her knuckles. Like I did earlier, she thought, and she wondered as to whether he was mimicking her. Sansa found that she did not mind if he was. 

Sansa looked down at the book he held under his arm, reaching out with her free hand to grab it from him. He allowed her, shifting when it was necessary, all the while keeping his eyes on hers. Sansa looked away from his arresting gaze, her heart pounding a savage song against her rib cage, hurting in its intensity. She shifted her eyes to the cover of the book, gasping in the delight when she saw the title. 

“Oh Jon! I love this novel! What compelled you to pick up Westeros’ Collection of Romantic Songs and Stories?” She asked breathlessly, hurriedly flipping through the worn pages. This book was her constant companion in her times of stress and heartbreak. She read it at almost every opportunity. She fingered the pages of one particular tale, tears pricking her eyes. 

“The story of Aemon the Dragonknight and Queen Naerys is my favorite,” Sansa said wistfully, running her fingers over the outline of the fair Naerys Targaryen’s face. Jon huffed a breath out of his nose next to her, causing Sansa to turn and peer up at him curiously. Jon moved away from her slightly, his hand leaving hers to clasp tightly at his own. 

“Wasn’t that story tragic?” He asked, his tone cynical and darkly amused. Sansa narrowed her eyes at his retreating figure. He reminded her of Robb suddenly, because despite how her brother spoiled her and entertained her romantic notions, he simultaneously dismissed them whenever he could. She pulled her free hand back to herself, curling it around the book to hug it to her chest. 

“Yes it is,” she said slowly, and then continued to explain. “They were Targaryens and Naerys was forced to marry her brother Aegon the Unworthy, when in actuality she loved her other brother Aemon. He loved her too and he joined the Kingsguard to protect her,” Sansa said, her voice fading into a dreamy cadence once again. She adored this story fiercely, for it was a tale of a selfless and true love that was filled with heartbreak and longing. It always moved her to tears whenever Old Nan retold it again and again at her insistence. 

“I know the story of Aemon the Dragonknight. I played him often as a child with Robb as Ser Ryam Redwyne. I admired him as a warrior,” Jon said, his lips slightly upturning, though his eyes remained somber. “And as a lover?” Sansa asked, watching as Jon turned away from her, as if afraid to look at her. 

“The story of Aemon and Naerys as lovers is wrong. The whole concept is wrong,” he said heatedly, his voice escalating as he spoke, emphasizing the word “wrong”. Sansa gasped, horrified at his statement, feeling the urge to defend the tragic siblings. 

“It is not wrong!” She shouted, stepping away from him. “They are a true love story! Aemon and Naerys adored each other and they were separated by his vows and her marriage, and not once did they forsake each other! She died just a year after he did! Tell me that is not love!” Sansa yelled furiously, clasping the book to herself tightly, as if to protect it  
from his cynicism. 

Jon turned to her suddenly, his eyes smoky and heated in anger. His face looked desperate and pleading, seeking to convince her of something she remained ignorant to. “Aemon and Naerys were brother and sister!” He shouted, enraged, so enraged in fact that Sansa took a step back in shock. Jon saw the shaken expression on his half-sister’s face and immediately calmed down. He appeared guilty then, in more ways than one. 

His gaze turned downwards, as if he couldn’t bear to look at her. “Brothers and sister aren’t supposed to love each other that way. Everyone knows that,” Jon said his voice taut with some restrained emotion, his right hand fisting tightly, his knuckles turning snow white. Sansa felt possessed by a strange force then, and in the back of her mind, she supposed Jon was too. It felt as if his words held a dual meaning, and fear chilled her heart at the thought. What does he know? Sansa wondered, and horror clogged her throat. 

“They were Targaryens. It was different for them,” Sansa said cautiously, stepping closer to where he stood, her hand hovering over his taut shoulder. Jon turned his eyes back to hers. “Targaryens, Baratheons, Lannisters, Starks. What does it matter? It’s all the same. It’s wrong and it’s too sinful to even consider,” Jon said imploringly, and Sansa felt that sensation she felt earlier. That he was trying to convince someone of something, though she could tell it wasn’t directed at her. 

“If it was so wrong, so sinful and disgusting, then why did it happen at all?” She asked lowly, resting her small hand on his upper arm, ignoring the way he stiffened. “If the gods hated them for their crime, then why was their love so pure and all consuming?” She continued, rubbing small circles into his bicep, a strange hope flaring in her heart as she felt him relax. 

“Their love was not pure,” Jon said, and turned his eyes away from hers. Sansa felt indignation rise within her at his stubbornness. What Aemon and Naerys had was real and it shouldn’t be dismissed, she thought intensely. One day she would convince him of it. 

“What do you know of love Jon Snow?” She asked, challenging him. Jon snapped his gaze back to hers. Their eyes locked, and the air was fraught with tension.

“It hurts,” Jon said simply, his voice fierce and resigned all at once, and Sansa felt her breath flee her lungs. She felt the urge to say something, anything, but her throat felt clogged and her tongue useless. 

It was all for naught anyway, for her brother Robb opened the door, causing the two half-siblings to scramble away from one another. Her brother looked between curiously, his eyes narrowed suspiciously, but before Sansa could truly become concerned, Robb resumed smiling widely. 

“I have come bearing gifts, my love!” He declared grandly, holding her clothes out in front of himself as if he carrying precious jewels. And with how expensive her wardrobe was, that was an accurate comparison. 

Sansa strode over to where Robb was, accepting his customary cheek kiss, and grabbing her clothing as she did. “Come Jon,” Robb called, motioning to their half-brother from where he stood by her bookcase. “Sansa needs to get dressed.”

Sansa peered behind him. “Where’s Theon?” She asked, watching as Robb grinned. “Are you so eager to see him, sweet sister? I’m not sure your older brother would take too kindly to that,” Her brother said teasingly, though a hint of warning lingered beneath his words. Sansa shuddered and made a face at the implication, hearing Robb’s answering laugh in the background. 

“He escorted Arya and Bran to Father’s solar. It seems as if our wild sister convinced Bran to help her hide your clothes in the godswood,” Robb said as he chuckled at her exasperated expression. “I knew it! I knew that she would drag Bran into it somehow!” Sansa cried, pouting as she did. 

Robb chuckled at her once more, pressing a kiss to her temple, before moving away from her and to the door. Jon followed him, stubbornly refusing to meet her gaze even as he said his farewells. 

Sansa watched him leave, her heart pulsating with an emotion that was akin to heartache. She placed her hands over the exposed skin of her chest, feeling the beat of her fragile heart. Every pound sounded like a name, like his name. Jon, Jon, Jon, it called to her, and tears sprung to her eyes. She looked over to the book she had placed on her bed when she grabbed her dresses. She wondered if Naerys’ heart beat for her Dragonknight as well. She wondered if the Queen knew if it was wrong for it to. Sansa surely did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Robb and Sansa are extremely close, and it is supposed to be to an uncomfortable degree. Yes, I did base some of their relationship on Cesare and Lucrezia from season 1 of The Borgias. From the many references I have made and will continue to make, you will see many allusions to the show. Same thing with Flowers in the Attic. Some of you who have watched the show or read the book will know what I'm talking about. I personally headcanon Robb to be an overprotective big brother, and aside from Jon, I imagine him to be closest with Sansa. They love each other dearly and their many interactions in this fic will continue to show that. No, they are not in love, and I'm sorry if that disappoints some of you. Everything I've done with their relationship is very purposeful and the more this story continues, you will see that. Let's just say that they're supposed to juxtapose another relationship in this story. I will leave you guys to figure out which. If you want more information on how I will portray their dynamic, I recommend reading the responses to certain comments I left in the last chapter's comment section. I hope I cleared the confusion for some of you!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is kind of filler because it sets up what's gonna happen in Chapter 9, which I am very excited for you guys to read! I originally was gonna post this as a really long chapter, but I decided to split it up. So for now, enjoy some bonding and slight angst!

Sansa approached her sister after their lessons ended, a smile resting on her face even as Arya glared at her nearing figure. It had been three days since their latest argument, which in truth, was no argument, but her sister exhibiting her famous immaturity by stuffing her clothes under a weirwood tree. 

“Hello, sweet sister,” Sansa greeted merrily, not even attempting to smother the amusement that lingered beneath her words. Arya’s scowl deepened comically, and Sansa had to refrain from laughing outright. She took a perverse pleasure in seeing her sister so wound up and upset. Sansa wondered if Arya felt the same when she needled her for angry outbursts. 

“Sod off, Princess. It’s your fault that I’m even here today,” Arya grumbled, crossing her arms tightly across her chest. Sansa scoffed in disbelief, and lifted her chin in a haughty manner. It almost felt like when they were children, and Sansa held back a grin at the thought. 

“It’s my fault that you’re an immature idiot?” Sansa spit back at her, her question entirely rhetorical. “Yes! Though I’m not an idiot. You are. If you didn’t taunt me I wouldn’t have done it,” Arya huffed, and then turned her head to the side to avoid her sister’s incredulous expression. Sansa suspected she did it so that she wouldn’t see her small smile. 

“My fault! My fault! You would have done it sooner or later, regardless of the reason,” Sansa accused, and instead of refuting it outright like Sansa expected, Arya shrugged and nodded slightly. “That’s probably true,” she conceded, causing her elder sister to laugh. 

Sansa reached her out her hand to her sister, gently pulling her up when Arya accepted her touch. The auburn haired girl looped her arm through the younger girl’s and continued to walk, heading towards their bedrooms. 

“You would’ve had to attend lessons anyway,” Sansa said conversationally as she and Arya exited the room. “You do realize that you have to learn to be a lady don’t you? It has nothing to do with me.” 

Arya looked up at her through narrowed eyes, though they did not appear angry. “It has everything to do with you Sansa. You’re the perfect lady, and I’m the bane of Septa Mordane’s sad existence,” Arya said, and Sansa attempted to refute her claim, but she found that could not. Not without revealing to Arya what would irrevocably tear them apart. Arya loved Jon dearly. She would blame Sansa and damn her to the Seven Hells if she knew what she truly felt for their half-brother. 

“I’m not a perfect lady,” Sansa said simply, and left it at that. Arya, perceptive thing that she was, noticed that her elder sister wished to cease the conversation and allowed for it to. She tightened her arm around Sansa’s in an almost comforting manner, and Sansa smiled at her sister’s sincerity. She could be so lovely when she wanted to. 

“And Mother? How long did she punish you and Bran for?” Sansa asked, and then laughed when Arya groaned and leaned against her shoulder dramatically. “A month! Can you believe that? I’m not allowed near the training grounds at all and Bran’s forbidden from climbing any trees or towers,” Arya explained, a slight whine creeping in at the edges of her tone. 

Sansa jostled her sister’s head at her shoulder, seeking to move her so that she could open her door. “Yes, I can believe it. Though I’m surprised it wasn’t longer. I was thinking that it would be at least three months,” Sansa said as she walked into the room, Arya trailing in behind her. 

Arya shrugged nonchalantly, and Sansa kept her eyes sharp as the girl neared her closet. Sansa knew that Arya wouldn’t try that trick again, her sister was much too creative to be redundant like that, but it never hurt to be cautious. “I think Mother was happy that we were spending time together voluntarily,” Arya said, causing Sansa to hum thoughtfully. 

Their mother always prayed for them to be closer, perhaps she thought a lighter punishment would encourage that. 

Arya walked over to her nightstand, picking up the tome that lied there. She flipped it open to the page that Sansa had bookmarked earlier. “Aemon and Naerys? Why were you reading that?” Arya inquired curiously, unaware of the icy shock that ran through the older girl in front of her. 

Sansa froze in place, her hands wringing and twisting anxiously. It was a habit she did whenever she felt nervous. 

I wanted to see what Jon saw, she thought. I wanted to see what he feared. I wanted to see if he saw it in me. Sansa turned back to Arya, meeting her eyes. “You know how much I love them, and that’s my favorite book,” Sansa explained casually, and Arya laughed sharply. “Of course it is. You always did dream of a handsome golden knight to sweep you off your feet,” Arya said mockingly, and Sansa held back the retort she felt building her throat. 

The knight she craved was neither golden or Southern, but dark and brooding. A black knight of the Wall, but she did not say it, lest her intelligent sister find the innuendos between her words. 

“You never know Arya. One day you may fall in love,” Sansa said teasingly, giggling when her sister gagged in an exaggerated manner. “I’d rather be run through by a stag!” She cried, falling against her sister’s bed as if she truly was being violently impaled by an antler. 

Sansa was about to further egg on her sister, but before she could, Bran ran into the room, his eyes wild and excited. “Direwolves!” He cried, gesticulating wildly with his arms, moving them in a tempestuous fashion. 

Both girls looked at him blankly, confusion clouding their faces. Bran, seemingly unable to articulate what he really meant to say, instead just ran over to Arya, dragging her off the bed with a startling strength. 

“Direwolves!” He yelled again, before yanking her out of the room, his older sister following close behind. 

Arya and Sansa needled their younger brother for answers as to what he meant by “direwolves”, but Bran, aside from his excited and one-worded proclamations, remained strangely tight-lipped. 

It was only when they arrived in the courtyard that Sansa truly knew what he meant. 

With a gasp, Sansa stopped in place, her hand raised to her open mouth in shock over what she saw. Six squirming direwolves were held in each of her brothers’ grasps, yelping and yawning adorably as they moved. 

Sansa approached the older boys closely, her heart racing with excitement and dread, the snarling sigil of her House present in her mind. She reached Robb first and felt some of her anxiety melt when he smiled reassuringly at her. “Look, love, baby direwolves for the wolf pack of House Stark,” Robb cooed soothingly, his gloved fingers running softly over a particular wolf, whose coat was a dark grey, his eyes shining like gold. 

Sansa reached out to stroke it, hesitating as her hand nearly reached its soft fur. Cringing, Sansa pulled away, cursing her cowardice. If she looked over, she could see Arya readily accepting a lighter colored direwolf of her own, but Sansa was not her sister. She had none of her iron will. 

“Here,” a deep voice called softly, and Sansa looked up and saw her half-brother, his eyes kind and sweet, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. Without realizing that she was doing it, Sansa unconsciously turned to face Jon, falling into his orbit. 

His hand covered hers, and he brought their joined fingers over to the snow white wolf he held in his arms. It was a tad smaller than the rest, and its eyes burned a hellish red, but it was lovely all the same. Her palm made contact with the lush fur of the tiny beast, and before Sansa could grasp at it again in an act of self-preservation, her fear had faded into nothing. As she continued to stroke the precious pup, Jon Snow’s large hand falling away from hers, she felt at home, like she was meant to be touching this wild creature. 

“For you,” Jon said, offering her a small, light grey, tawny eyed wolf. Sansa took it from him gently, so enraptured by the connection she felt that she missed the way his fond gaze never left her, standing so majestically with the sigil of her House nestled tamely in her arms.

Sansa ran a finger down her wolf’s snout, laughing as it moved its head demurely. “You’re a real lady aren’t you,” Sansa cooed, and then immediately decided on the beast’s name. “Lady. Her name is Lady,” she announced, ignoring the teases her siblings threw her way, because of course Sansa would name her wolf Lady. 

The auburn haired girl looked up, meeting Jon’s reverent gaze, and pinking slightly when she noticed it. “What about yours? Does it have a name?” Sansa asked, watching as Jon began to blush when he realized she had caught him staring. He glanced down at the quiet direwolf in his arms, his mind coming to a blank. 

“No, actually. I don’t really know what to name him…” Jon said a bit awkwardly, embarrassment coloring his tone. Sansa laughed, causing Jon to flush again, for her laugh was so lovely and sweet. 

“Do you remember that time when we were children? When Robb lured us into the crypt and told us about a ghost that haunted it, and then you came out, silent as a specter, covered in flour and eyes bright red due to the flames,” Sansa said, and Jon laughed heartily in return, nodding as she stepped closer. “He is like that, I think. Silent as a ghost,” She said, and reached over to pet the white wolf once again. 

“Ghost,” Jon said quietly, testing the name on his tongue, before nodding resolutely. He met her gaze again, his eyes smiling. “Ghost it is.” 

Sansa grinned at him in response, secretly elated that he chose the name she suggested. 

“Father says that we must care for these wolves, feed them, and bathe them on our own. If one dies then that is that,” Robb announced suddenly, his voice firm. All of his siblings nodded in response, before spreading out, each person deciding to spend time with their newly chosen companion. 

Soon, Jon and Sansa were the only ones left, and without the presence of the other Stark children, it felt awkward. Their argument lingered in her mind, and she found that she had no idea on what to say to him. Before she could ruminate on this any longer, Jon interrupted her musings. 

“I’m sorry Sansa, for the other day. I had no right to dismiss your favorite story,” Jon said apologetically, his eyes locked on hers intensely. Sansa shook her head slightly, dismissing his apology. “No, Jon. You were right. It isn’t okay to excuse deviant behavior, and I was doing just that.” 

Jon’s jaw tightened slightly, and his features seemed darker somehow. Sansa tried to ignore the thrill she felt run down her spine when she noticed it. “What do you mean by that? By deviant behavior?” He asked, his voice taut.

Sansa swallowed nervously, her arms tightening around Lady, a strange vulnerability unfurling in her belly. “Incest,” she said quietly, as if afraid to breathe life into the wretched word, fearful of exposing herself to it. Remember your vow, she thought desperately. Remember your promise.

Jon sucked in a breath, his chest caving into itself a bit. For a wild moment, she wondered if he sought to hide his heart from her. 

“Either way, I shouldn’t have been so brash. I should’ve been softer towards you,” he said, and maybe he should’ve, but Sansa at the moment could not comprehend much outside of her fluttering heart. It felt like a little bird was trapped within the confines of her breast. 

Hastily, Sansa turned from her half-brother and rushed away, barely wishing him farewell. 

Lady was cradled to her chest, and Sansa tried to focus on the soft whimpers she made, but all she could do was think about that promise. That damned promise. 

Remember, remember, remember, she repeated in her head, the words stringing together like a mantra. 

When she reached her chambers, she deposited Lady onto her bed gently, and shoved that cursed book under her bed where she could not see it. 

“Remember,” Sansa said softly, and the word felt like fire on her tongue.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Love doesn't always come when you want it to. Sometimes it just happens, despite your will.” - V.C. Andrews, Flowers in the Attic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was really, really excited to post this. In this chapter you guys will see a little bit of the juxtaposition that I talked about previously. Enjoy!

It was near dinnertime, and Sansa sat at her vanity, running a brush through her silken crimson locks, Lady playing calmly upon her furs. It had only been a couple of hours since Sansa had received her, and already she felt as if there was an unbreakable bond between them. Every time her heart beat it almost seemed like Lady’s heart did as well. She swiveled slightly to peer at her beautiful wolf, love blanketing over her and filling her with its warmth.

“Lady,” Sansa called quietly, giggling softly when the pup bounded over to her. Already, her wolf seemed to know when she was being called, and the girl felt pleased that her direwolf was so intelligent. Sansa bent over to pick up the yelping creature, nuzzling her against the porcelain surface of her cheek.

“Sweet girl,” she cooed, smiling when Lady licked a stripe up her chin. “I love you so much, my precious pup.”

When Sansa was about to stand to head to the great hall to eat, a knock sounded at her door. “Are you decent?” A voice called playfully, and Sansa rolled her eyes good-naturedly, huffing in slight annoyance. “Come in Robb,” she called, and tried to refrain from smiling when her brother walked in, his wolf at his heels.

Sansa bent down to greet the adorable beast, giggling when it tried to nip at her fingertips. “Grey Wind. No,” Robb commanded sternly when he noticed his wolf attempting to bite at his sister’s fingers. “It’s fine,” Sansa said to him, cooing when she turned her attention back to Grey Wind.

What a peculiar name, Sansa thought as she stroked the male pup’s ears. She decided not to ask her brother why he named his wolf that. Sansa, despite the great love she bore for her dearest sibling, often did not try to question his eccentricities.

“Are you not going to greet me, my love? Or are you still too enraptured by my fearsome direwolf,” Robb questioned playfully, laughing boisterously when Sansa shot him an annoyed glare.

Sansa stood slowly, and walked into her brother’s open arms, giggling when he squeezed her tightly, nearly suffocating her with his embrace. Robb rested his chin on top of her head, his hand coming up to stroke softly at her hair. Sansa looked up at him in confusion, and saw him already looking down at her, his sad eyes betraying his smile.

Sansa brought her fair hand up to his bearded cheek, silently worried over how sorrowful he appeared at that moment. But it was a strange sort of sorrow, for it was not a sorrow that could’ve been directed at one’s self, but to another. Is it over me? Sansa wondered, her eyebrows quirking in confusion.

Robb grabbed the hand resting at his cheek and pulled it away gently, before tilting her chin up with his other hand. He leaned down expectantly, and Sansa met him halfway, pressing a quick kiss to his waiting mouth. She pulled away to see that sad smile again, though a touch of anger hid beneath it, and before she could question him on his strange mood, Robb looped her arm through his.

He walked with her towards the Great Hall, their arms clinging together, both siblings settling into a comfortable silence. It always like that with Robb. There was never any need to say something to each other, for they enjoyed each other’s presence enough that idle conversation proved an unnecessary triviality. Sansa smiled softly, resting her head against her brother’s strong shoulder. He was just like Father in that regard, she thought fondly.

When they reached their destination, Robb untangled himself from her, but placed his hand between her shoulder blades in order to lead her to her seat. He pulled the chair out for her, and Sansa chuckled when she saw him stick his face expectantly out towards hers, to which she immediately plopped a peck onto his cheekbone.

Her brother strode over to his seat beside Father, while Sansa settled down next to Arya. Her sister was distractedly playing with the ends of her dark braids, her luminous eyes downcast and bored. A month ago, Sansa would’ve scolded her for the unladylike habit, but instead she found herself smiling at the fidgeting form of her younger and wilder sister.

Arya met her eyes, her face shrouded in suspicion at her older sister’s scrutiny. “What?” She asked warily, causing Sansa’s smile to widen, which immediately served to make Arya even more circumspect. “Your hair looks very nice today,” Sansa said simply, and Arya reared her head back in shock, her mouth wide and her brows risen high on her lovely face.

Sansa giggled at the younger girl, and moved to turn back in her seat, but stopped when she felt someone’s eyes upon her. She looked up quickly to meet Jon Snow’s grey-eyed stare, a joyful grin spreading across his handsome features when he looked between her and Arya. Sansa was brought back to that pivotal moment again, the argument that lead to the most fundamental change in her life thus far, and remembered how staunchly he stood up for Arya. How much he said he wished that Sansa could be kinder to her.

Sansa met his gaze resolutely, offering him her sweetest smile, enjoying the blush that reddened his cheeks. She wondered if her own face mirrored his, shy and beautiful, an enchantment to behold. That’s what he was, Sansa thought impulsively, longingly. He was an enchantment beyond anything she could describe, and she love, love, loved him for it.

Catelyn Stark and Ned Stark soon filed into the room, their younger siblings and Theon Greyjoy trailing in behind them. Sansa tore her gaze away from Jon, picked up the cup of water in front of her, and drank it quickly, hoping to hide her love-stricken face from her perceptive mother.

Her mother walked over to her, dropping a kiss to her cheek and then to Arya’s when she reached her sister. Catelyn sat beside her, shooting her a strange and excited look as she did, and Sansa felt confused once again. She had the distinct feeling that something important was to be said at supper today, though she could not for the life of her imagine what.

Ned Stark sat at his seat at the head of the table, and the second he did, the servants raced to bring them their food in a flurry of movement. Sansa saw a tray of mutton being brought over, along with a silver platter of lemoncakes, which she couldn’t help but salivate over a bit.

The servants dropped their plates off in front of them, and every Stark began to eat as soon as they received their food. Sansa was about to put a cut piece of mutton into her open mouth, before her father called her name. She looked over at him curiously, placing her fork down gently. “Yes, Father?” She asked sweetly.

Ned smiled at her tenderly, the kind of smile he really only reserved for his wife and daughters. “Won’t you take a lemoncake, love? They’re fresh. The lemons arrived from Highgarden just today,” He said, causing Sansa to furrow her brows in confusion. There was strict rule set by her mother that prohibited them from eating desert before dinner.

Sansa glanced over at Catelyn to see her beaming at her proudly, which only furthered Sansa’s perplexity. At the moment, she had done nothing for her mother feel proud of.

Ever the obedient girl, Sansa nodded slowly and reached for a lemoncake warily, as if she still expected her mother to stop her. When she didn’t, Sansa took a slow bite of the treat, her eyes immediately fluttering to close in bliss. It was quite possibly the best lemoncake she had ever eaten in her entire life.

Sansa hummed happily at the flavor, and quickly reached for the next one, eager to try another. She looked across the table to see Jon staring at her, his eyes heated and smoky as he watched her lick the crumbs off the corners of her pink lips. Sansa flushed.

She turned her attention back to her father once again, hoping that he didn’t notice the exchange. “I have news for you, sweetling,” he said, his tone gentle and warmly paternal.

Sansa perked up, trying to ignore the nervous shivers that ran down her spine.

“What is it?” She asked, and then felt her mother’s soft hand stroke the crimson waves of her hair. Catelyn Stark often did that to calm her down whenever Sansa was anxious. The girl’s eyes widened, dread hollowing out her stomach, leaving her without an appetite.

“I have arranged a match for you, my love, to the Prince Joffrey Baratheon,” Ned Stark announced proudly, though his eyes remained on hers.

The sound of a goblet clattering against the floor moved everyone’s gaze to the origin of the sound.

Jon’s face was bright red with embarrassment as he quickly reached down to grab the fallen object, muttering a hasty apology when he returned the cup to its rightful place beside him. Sansa met his eyes again, and a sudden hopelessness overcame her, drowning her in it almost painfully. His grey irises looked unnaturally black in the dim lighting of the large room, and Sansa could see a certain dark emotion lingering beneath his stony façade.

She turned back to her father, and beamed as happily as she possibly could, thanking him for the wonderful match. Sansa tried to ignore the sob building in her throat, forcing it down with sips of water and bites of food.

She should feel happy. She would be Queen of the Seven Realms, like Cersei Lannister, the most beautiful woman in Westeros. She could learn to happy. She could be happy. She should be happy.

Sansa looked up and met Jon’s dark and angry gaze again, and felt that feverish sensation inflame her once again.

She should feel happy. But she wasn’t.

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa sat on the root of the grand weirwood tree, tears trailing slowly down her ivory cheeks. She met the solemn gaze of the Old Gods, and wondered if they would protect her down in Kingslanding. She wondered if they even reached that far south.

It was so, so strange. Just months ago, she would’ve been over the moon at the news, at the notion of being a queen. But the Sansa Stark of old was different than the girl she knew she was now. No longer was she ashamed of her Northern heritage, and attempt to hide it under the silk dresses and intricate hairstyles of the South. Now she embraced Winterfell and all it had to offer. She saw the ice that hid behind the surface of her Tully blue eyes, and she could see how the scarlet leaves of the weirwood blended into her crimson colored tresses. She was a Stark of Winterfell, and she accepted it too late.

Sansa looked up curiously when she heard the crunch of footsteps upon the snowy ground, her eyes following the sound. Her heart jumped in her throat when she noticed it was her half-brother.

He had a desperate and wild look about him, though Sansa could see how he tried to school his expression into one of normalcy when he saw her. “Sansa,” he rasped, his voice hoarse and hurt, as if he had been crying.

“Hello, Jon,” Sansa greeted softly, her words fading into the wind. She wished that she could too.

“What are you doing here?” He asked curiously, and Sansa could hear his tone falling into its natural baritone. She shrugged and looked around casually, attempting to feign the confidence she didn’t feel right now. “Am I not allowed to pray in the Godswood, Jon?” She asked, her tone a bit playful as she tried to mask her sorrow.

Jon, perceptive thing that he was, noticed her efforts and went along with them.

“You’re allowed to pray anywhere.”

“And why is that?”

“I don’t think anyone has the ability to deny you anything.”

“Even the gods?”

“Even the gods.”

Sansa chuckled slightly, taken aback by his candor, but then again, Jon always did have a habit of surprising her in the best kind of ways. “If that was true then they would deny me this marriage,” Sansa said impulsively, for some reason deciding to be honest with him. She was not sure she would have told even Robb this secret of hers.

Jon’s eyes widened in shock. “You do not wish to marry Joffrey?” he asked, utterly surprised, and Sansa tried to tell herself that the subtle joy she heard in his voice was of her own hopeful imagination. “No,” she answered simply, and the two half-siblings stood in silence afterwards.

She glanced over at him and saw him clenching his fists tightly, his full mouth stretching into a taut line across his face. He looked conflicted and confused, as if he had no idea what to feel in that moment. Sansa wished she could understand why.

“Why not? Are you afraid?” Jon asked, stepping closer to her, and Sansa stood so that that she didn’t have to crane her neck uncomfortably in order to look at him. She nodded at him silently, her heart racing so loudly as he neared that she was half-afraid that he would hear it.

“I do not know Joffrey, but…” Her voice faded with uncertainty and Sansa tried to find words to better articulate herself. “But what?” Jon asked quietly as he stopped in front of her, their chests barely inches apart.

Sansa’s breath hitched at his proximity, her eyes fluttering shut when his knuckles caressed her porcelain cheekbone. “What if he is ungallant?” She asked quietly, her chest caving in on itself, feeling so wholly empty and unsatisfied, as if there was a piece missing from within her.

Jon stayed silent for an agonizing moment, and Sansa almost cursed her vulnerability, before Jon placed his large hands at her upper arms, pushing her gently until her back hit the bark of the weirwood. He pinned her between himself and the white tree behind her, and while this position couldn’t be anything more than threatening, Sansa utterly reveled in it. In that moment, she spared no thought towards propriety or safety. Standing on the precipice beside him felt so good, so freeing. She had never felt this way in her life.

“If Joffrey ever harms you,” Jon continued, his breath skimming across the column of her throat, his voice low and threatening as he spoke. Sansa repressed a shiver. “I will cut his heart out with a dinner knife and serve it to you,” Jon said, and Sansa’s eyes flickered to his full and beautiful mouth.

I want to kiss him, she thought madly. I want to feel his lips pressed against mine.

Jon looked down to her lips, pretty and pink. He brought his thumb up to her chin and caressed it slightly, the pad of his finger barely brushing against the bottom swell of her mouth. Sansa sighed softly as he did. His touch soothed her aching soul.

“We are a family of wolves, and a pack protects its own,” Jon whispered hoarsely, and leaned down hesitantly, slowly, as if he was afraid. However, before he could truly think of what he was doing, Jon caught Sansa’s lips against his own.

At first his bottom lip and her top lip brushed just slightly, before Jon and Sansa pressed them together more resolutely. The kiss was no more than three seconds, short by most standards. But when they pulled away, their mouths lingered to touch.

Jon wrenched himself away entirely when he noticed what he had just done. Sansa’s eyes widened, and she could feel herself blushing brightly, her face so hot it practically was a flame.

Jon scrambled away from her, and stared at her in shock for just a moment more, before rushing away, not even wishing her farewell as he went.

Sansa fell back against the tree, the tree Jon had just kissed her against, and tried to convince herself that this was normal. I kissed Robb just today, she thought hurriedly, attempting to convince herself that it was the same.

It wasn’t though. The kiss she had just shared with Jon was a deviant mockery of her chaste pecks with Robb. Her older brother never left her feeling hot and feverish when he kissed her, and never before had she felt desire inflame her whenever he walked away from her.

It’s just like Robb. It’s just like Robb. It’s just like Robb, Sansa thought desperately, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t. It never was. She fell against the hard bark of the white weirwood and sobbed, smothering the wretched hope that flared in her chest.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You and I. We're just like magnets baby. Hypnotized. Even addicted to your grumpy face, I know exactly just how many kisses fit between your eyes"- F**k Em Only We Know, Banks (aka the jonsa song from heaven)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much to say really, other than the fact that Cesare Borgia!Jon Snow is canon and that he will be making an appearance pretty soon! Enjoy the chapter!

Sansa walked in the glass gardens, her soft fingertips running over the silken red petal of a blooming rose, a small smile stretching across her face despite the sadness that lingered in her heart. 

Jon refused to speak to her, to look at her even. She was half-convinced that he banished her from his mind entirely. Tears sprung to her beautiful eyes, her hand coming to rest upon her aching chest. Ever since he rejected her it seemed as if a vice had wrapped itself tight around her bleeding heart, tightening around the organ further with every avoided glance, with every mute hello. 

Sansa grabbed the rose, slightly wincing at the thorns that punctured her smooth skin. She wanted to blame this entire situation on her father, though intellectually she knew that was unfair to him. Ned Stark was only doing what every loving father would do. He was arranging for her to become a future queen, a title she had dreamed of ever since she was a young girl.

The auburn haired girl chuckled bitterly then, watching droplets of blood escape the open cuts of her right hand. It seemed so terribly funny that it was only when she was offered the position she always wanted, the golden prince she always yearned for, it was when she decided she no longer craved them. 

Sansa threw the unoffending rose to the ground, stomping on it childishly beneath her satin covered feet, tears running down her cheeks, hate burning throughout the entirety of her. She hated him, the golden Baratheon boy she didn’t even know. He had done nothing to her and yet she despised his very presence, the notion of his existence, for he was a reminder of everything she could not have. 

Her engagement to him should have made her happy, but all it had done was drive her to kiss Jon, and then bathe in the ice of his indifference. She felt a different kind of rage inflame her then, but it was tempered by her heartbreak, by her knowledge that she could never truly hate a man that she so desperately loved. That’s why it hurt didn’t it? Because she loved him? Sansa had never known true sorrow until that moment, when Jon had shoved her away from him and ignored her for what was going to be a week now. 

Sansa sighed deeply through her nose and gathered herself. She would not succumb to tears, not anymore. There was nothing she could do to stop this betrothal, or to rid Jon of his ridiculous sense of honor. If she was to be a queen one day then she would learn to behave like one. 

She walked over to a marble bench and sat down primly, reaching for more flowers. She had no lessons today, for Septa Mordane had dismissed her from them on account to her being a future monarch. Apparently her Septa was quite proud to be the Septa of a to-be-Princess, and had given her a reprieve because of it. 

Sansa wondered how Arya was faring without her, and then decided that she would be suffering nothing at all. Knowing her sister, Arya had probably run off to start some mischief with Bran or Rickon or the buther’s boy if she was feeling particularly rebellious. 

She smiled slightly at the thought of her younger sister. Arya had been her sole comfort in all of her secret heartbreak. Normally that role would be reserved to Robb, but her older brother had been in a rotten mood ever since he learned of her engagement. Despite the fact that he knew about it before she did, he still stewed in a protective rage over it. In fact, Robb had been so bold as to throw snide comments towards her father many times since his official announcement, who in turn suffered Robb’s ire with as much patience as he could. 

Sansa giggled at the thought. She wondered if she annoyed father as much whenever he brought up Alys Karstark. Sansa smiled a bit deviously. Poor girl, she mused pityingly. She and Arya would have made her life terrible if Father had agreed to the match. 

Her nimble fingers weaved the roses into a lovely crown, which Sansa promptly placed onto her head, before moving to make another. It felt good to perform mindless tasks like this. It took her mind off of more troubling things. 

The sound of Lady’s barking made Sansa snap her head towards the direction her direwolf was facing. Sansa knew Lady as she knew herself, if Lady sensed that there was danger then Sansa would feel it in her bones. 

A small white direwolf approached her feet, and Sansa cooed at the creature despite the dread she felt growing within her. If Ghost was near then so was his damned owner. 

“My Lady!” A voice said abruptly, and Sansa nearly rolled her eyes at the familiar awkwardness she heard in his voice. 

“Hello, Jon,” Sansa said evenly, keeping her gaze steadfast to the crown of winter roses she was weaving. Like the one her Aunt Lyanna had worn a thousand years ago at that fateful tourney. 

“How are you, Lady Sansa?” Jon inquired, and through the corner of her eye, she could see her half-brother looking at her a bit strangely, guilt written across his face. Sansa breathed a slow sigh through her nose. Yes, Jon had much to feel repentant for. 

“I’m surprised that you seem so concerned Jon. I had honestly thought that you had forgotten my existence entirely,” Sansa said airily, refusing to meet his eager eyes, her gaze lowered to her fast moving fingers. Jon groaned then, and Sansa tried to ignore the traitorous shiver that ran down her spine. 

“Sansa please,” Jon said, agonized and desperate. She felt as if he was about to start convincing her of something that he felt she remained ignorant to. The girl tried not to grow indignant at the thought. After all, Jon was three years her senior, and because of that, he was much more superior in sense and in intelligence. Sansa was suddenly very much aware that she was failing at reigning in her anger. 

“You know as well as I do that we crossed a line. That we’ve been toeing that line for weeks now,” Jon said tiredly, moving to kneel in front of her. Sansa stood abruptly, striding away from his reaching hands. She knew herself, she knew what she felt, and she would not allow herself to be condescended to! 

“You know nothing, Jon Snow,” Sansa spat, her normally sweet and melodic tone turned acidic as she spoke. “We didn’t do anything wrong,” She said, much more softly, her arms moving to wrap around her shaking form. She felt unbearably vulnerable then, so much so that she could hardly stand it. 

Jon turned her around quickly, his face incredulous and disbelieving, his large hands wrapping around her upper arms. Sansa tried to ignore the memory of what happened the last time they stood in this position. “Are you fucking kidding me? Sansa you can’t be this blind. You know just as well as I that what we did could very well damn us,” He said heatedly, his grey eyes pleading and wide. 

Sansa shoved at his chest roughly, wanting space, but his superior strength allowed for him to keep her in the circle of his arms. “Then I am damned twice over! I have kissed Robb before have I not? I don’t see anyone accusing us of anything!” Sansa yelled stubbornly, knowing full well what the difference was, but not wanting to give him the satisfaction of being right. 

“It’s different with you and Robb. You two have always been close,” Jon told her sensibly, and Sansa ground her teeth in frustration. “Well then what is the problem?” She asked angrily, feeling the urge to throw her hands up in the air. 

Jon’s eyes narrowed, and a strange look flitted across his face quickly. Before Sansa could question it, Jon dragged her forward until they stood chest to chest, their noses and lips inches apart. Sansa gasped raggedly at his proximity, her eyes flickering to his full lips, desire replacing the anger that churned in her breast. 

Jon neared until their mouths were but a hairbreadth apart, his breath brushing against her open lips, his eyes wild and feral. He moved slightly, nuzzling down the length of her throat, scenting her as he went. 

Sansa’s knees were so weak she could hardly stand, so she allowed him to support her weight, nearly whimpering when his lips brushed against her exposed collarbone. 

They were not in plain sight, but through the windows of the glass gardens, they were visible enough. Sansa felt excitement thrum in her veins at the thought, and she tried not to feel wretched because of it. Though, it was hard to think of much of anything with what Jon was doing to her right now. 

Jon returned his face to be close to hers again, pressing feather light kisses to her cheek as he trailed closer to her panting mouth. He kissed the corner of her pink lips, softly, cruelly, and yet with a fleeting desperation that made her breath catch. 

“Does Robb kiss you like that, sweet girl?” Jon asked quietly, and Sansa shook her head hurriedly, her eyes scrunched up and closed tightly, unable to meet his heated gaze. 

“Kiss me please,” Sansa requested, her voice breathy and full of need. 

Jon moved closer, bringing her face nearer to his, brushing his lips fleetingly against hers. He was cruel, too cruel. The worst part is that he seemed to enjoy the effect he had on her. 

In an act of desperation, Sansa grabbed the sides of his face and brought it to hers, crushing her lips against his. 

Jon groaned as their mouths met in a hurried frenzy, his hands moving from her face to grab at her hips possessively, pulling her flush to him. Their chests rising and falling rapidly in unison, their hearts racing as one. 

Sansa made a small sound in the back of her throat, which seemed to spur him on, who in turn opened his mouth against hers, his tongue tracing her bottom lip. She gasped at the sensation, and he took the opportunity to enter the heat of her mouth. 

He brushed his tongue against her own, causing Sansa to open her lips further, eager to learn how to make him feel the sensations he caused within her. She attempted to mimic him, which Jon, perceptive man that he was, noticed and slowed his ministrations. He slowed his movements to a sensual pace, and Sansa could not decide which felt better. If there was anything better even. 

Their mouths stayed together with a desperation born from restraint. Sansa tried to consider what brought them to this moment, but she could not find a definitive answer. 

Everything lead to what they were doing now. Every new touch, every laugh, every shy smile brought them to this blessed fate. Sansa wondered if the gods had chosen this path for them, or if they paved it themselves. 

Jon eventually broke away, panting raggedly, his lips swollen and red. Sansa blushed then. She could almost imagine that she looked like one of the whores Theon always bragged about bedding. 

Jon brought her closer to himself, embracing her tightly. Sansa could feel droplets of liquid falling upon her crimson hair, causing her to look up.

The boy in front of her looked tortured and blissful, his eyes swimming with rage and love. She reached up, slowly caressing his bearded cheek, tears welling up in her own eyes. 

“I love you, Jon. I know it’s wrong, but I do and I will not hate myself for it any longer,” Sansa whispered softly, feeling Jon’s strong arms tighten around her almost painfully. She bore the discomfort, for her Jon needed reassurance. 

“The gods have cursed us, Sansa,” Jon said desperately, heartbreakingly, and Sansa released a sob. She shook her head. “No Jon they have not. If the gods hate us for what we are then why allow for this to feel so natural? So good? No sin can taste as sweet as this, therefore it is not a sin,” Sansa said softly, comforting her aching love, her heart beating in sync with his own. 

Jon opened his mouth to respond, presumably with a rebuttal or a declaration of love, she would never know, before the sound of Lady and Ghost barking at the door moved them to scramble apart from one another. 

Sansa ran her fingers through her scarlet tresses, smoothing down the wrinkled folds of her dress. Jon did much the same as her, combing down his raven curls with his shaking hands. Sansa flushed slightly. She had done that to him. 

Arya walked into the area, a wild excitement highlighting her features. Before Sansa could inquire as to what she wanted, Arya screamed, “The King is coming to Winterfell!” 

Sansa froze, her heart stilling in her chest. She glanced over at Jon, feeling fear lick at the corners of her mind.

He stood silently, as he usually did, but there was a dark expression lingering around his face, and his eyes shown with dragon fire. He looked wrathful, murderous even. She could not dare to think of what impulsive thing he wanted to do. 

Sansa looked back at her sister, her own eyes wary. “When?” She asked, feigning a casual normalcy. 

Arya grinned, her face feral as she did. “Next month.”

Sansa felt her heart freeze. By this time next month her family would host the King of the Seven Realms. By this time next month, she would meet her betrothed Joffrey Baratheon. 

She chanced a look at her half-brother again, and the shaken look on his face seemed to show that he realized it too. 

By this time next month, I’ll probably never see him again, Sansa thought despairingly, her heart raw and aching and withered. 

By this time next month I shall never be happy, Sansa realized with a heartbreaking finality as her eyes met his once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally intended for this chapter to be a lot angstier and sad, but the characters ran away with me. What I'm really trying to say is that I wanted Jon and Sansa to make out real bad.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys I am so, so sorry for the late update (for me anyway). I tried to upload this chapter sooner, but I was so busy with school and homework that I barely had time to sit down. Enjoy the update and leave comments if you want to! I love hearing from you guys, positive or negative (though not too negative I hope).

“What do you think the prince will be like?” Arya asked casually, her fingers running over Sansa’s soft bed furs, her eyes closing as her sister braided her hair.

The king and his entourage were due to arrive in Winterfell any day now, and the castle was alive with the bustle of servants and Catelyn Stark’s nervous energy. Their mother was an efficient woman. After all, she successfully ran the household of Riverrun when she was a girl of only ten name days. However, it also lead to her becoming extremely anxious and snappy, though she hardly ever reacted that way to Sansa.

Instead she would softly brush her crimson locks and coo over her “future princess” of a daughter, which in Sansa’s opinion, was a different sort of torture on its own.

“What do you mean?” Sansa asked, snapping back into focus, threading another winter rose into her sister’s dark braid. Arya at first had been rather hesitant to allow Sansa to brush and style her hair, but she had conceded easily enough when Sansa promised to make up excuses for her missed lessons if she ever decided to skip.

“It’s a simple enough question, Princess Sansa,” Arya’s voice turned mischievous. “Unless you’re too stupid to understand…” she trailed off, and then yelped when Sansa yanked on her hair. “Don’t be rude,” Sansa remarked lightly, a slight smile tugging at the end of her lips.

“I don’t know what he’s going to be like. I only hope that he is kind,” Sansa said softly, finishing off her sister’s pretty braid. Arya turned then, and Sansa found herself struck by her sister’s sudden beauty. Arya was a child still, a girl of twelve, hardly a woman. But even then, she could see hints of the stunning woman she would become. It hid in the traces of her wide and luminous grey eyes, in the depths of her feral smile. Arya was a wild beauty, a she-wolf. She reminded Sansa of that sad statue that stood in the dank crypts of Winterfell. Arya looked just like their Aunt Lyanna.

“He should be kind. He’s your golden prince,” Arya said lightly, though a flicker of warning hummed in the depths of her tone. Sansa’s gentle heart warmed at her sister’s implied protectiveness. “Let us hope so,” Sansa said simply, and she prayed that Arya would not hear how disappointed she truly felt.

Joffrey Baratheon could be as kind and noble as any fabled prince, as any Florian the Fool, and it would still not matter to her. She loved another, and though she tried to tell herself it would fade with time, that their love was doomed and damned twice over, Sansa could not extinguish the flame that burned in her heart.

She belonged to Jon. She always would. Sansa knew that with an undying certainty now. Though, she could at least try to find happiness with her betrothed, surely the gods could grant her that.

“He is,” Sansa replied, watching intently for any change in her sister’s face. She attempted to keep her voice as earnest and as fanciful as expected of her, but it was hard to do so when the reminder of her sorrow walked the same halls that she did.

Sansa got up from her bed, skipping over the wrestling forms of Lady and Nymeria, and sat at her vanity.

Her scarlet tresses were braided into a lovely crown, with the rest of her hair hanging like a red waterfall around her neck. It was a stunning style, and Sansa absolutely adored it. It was a perfect mixture of Northern and Southern fashion. It would remind Joffrey of her heritage, while at the same time showing her ability to assimilate to his Southron culture. She had never before been aware of how diplomatic hair could truly be.

Sansa picked up the red roses lying at her table and braided them into her crown. The red of the flowers nearly blended into the color of her hair, but the effect was beautiful all the same. She felt like an ethereal forest nymph, tasked with luring innocent men into the confines of her embrace and her manipulations. In her mind, the men were tall and grey eyed, staunchly Northern men. She blushed slightly at the implication of who she saw falling into her arms.

When she was finished with her hair, Arya came up beside her, fingering the ends of her dark braid. Her eyes were locked with her reflection, a look of shock overcoming her blooming features.

“I look… weird,” She said lamely, and Sansa giggled at her sister’s obvious insecurity. She stood up and walked behind Arya, placing her hands on her thin shoulders. “You look beautiful,” Sansa said softly, smiling when she saw Arya’s acceptance at her statement.

“You look just like Aunt Lyanna, and an actual war was fought over her. Over her beauty,” Sansa said, and while that probably was a highly romanticized version of the actual story, she dismissed the need to say it accurately.

Arya nodded once, perking when she heard the door open.

Robb walked in, Jon and Theon in tow as they strode in behind him. Sansa caught Jon’s gaze and held it for a moment, before letting her eyes slowly flutter away. She wanted to keep looking at him, at his handsome face and his arresting smoky eyes, but she could not. At least, not with Robb around in any case. He would probably turn into wild fire itself if he knew of their affections. Robb was dramatic that way.

Her older brother came up beside them, smiling gallantly at his lovely sisters. “What do we have here gentlemen? I find myself breathless at the sight of these two stunning young women,” Robb said teasingly, though Sansa could see the genuine awe shining in his blue eyes as he looked at them. She imagined that if she peered at the boys behind her, she would see that same star-struck expression.

Arya stuck her tongue out aggressively at Robb, stomping her feet furiously as he laughed at her embarrassment. Sansa on the other hand, accepted his compliment with all the grace of a queen. She even tilted her chin up in a snobbish manner and held her hand out for her brother to kiss.

Robb watched her with laughing eyes and a wide grin, and Sansa couldn’t help the beam that spread across her features. He grabbed her outstretched hand and planted a loud, sloppy kiss against her skin. Sansa squealed in a mixture of disgust and delight, shrieking when Robb grasped the sides of her head and planted wets kisses all over her face.

Arya and Theon laughed at the siblings, and through the corner of her eye she could see Jon’s wide grin. She felt her heart warm.

Eventually, she was able to shove a cackling Robb away, and she felt grateful over the fact that he had enough sense not to mess up her hair. She would’ve murdered him if he did.

Theon walked up to her and ran his large hand through the silk of her hair. His face was mocking and arrogant as usual, but his eyes held a slight reverent gleam that he could not hide.

Sansa felt almost sorry for the young ward. She knew that Theon wished to marry her at some point, and though the very idea made her cringe, she couldn’t help but pity the ruination of his childhood dream. Sansa supposed that was why he was acting so affectionate with her at that moment.

When his touch went on for too long, Robb shoved him away from her with a light teasing, but Sansa could see the warning that swam beneath his gaze. She almost groaned. If Robb was behaving insufferably protective at the mere act of another man touching her, then she didn’t want to even begin to imagine what he would do when he saw Joffrey.

“Oy Greyjoy! Why don’t you lay off of Sansa. She is betrothed now, don’t you know?” Jon piped up mockingly, and were she anyone else, she would not have heard the slight anger that hid in his words. She felt her heart race nervously. Jon’s anger had always been rather unpredictable. Despite his quiet countenance, his wrath was a thing to behold. She heard stories of the fights he used to get into as a boy at the mere mention of the word “bastard”.

Theon snapped his head towards Jon, his eyebrows furrowed. “I know that, Snow. No one needs to remind me of that,” Theon muttered defensively, folding his arms across his broad chest.

Sansa looked between them anxiously. It was no secret to anyone in Winterfell that Theon and Jon disliked each other, and were mostly civil around one another for Robb’s sake. She glanced at her brother, and saw him peering between the two boys suspiciously. His blue eyes were cautious and narrow, as if he expected an argument.

“Why is that?” Jon asked, and if Sansa was hearing him correctly, he sounded a bit amused. It was a strange kind of amusement though, for it was not born from enjoyment. No, everything about Jon seemed stiff and tense, as if he was a rubber band about to snap. It scared her and excited her at the same time.

“I know my place here, bastard, unlike some others. I know where I stand when it comes to your pretty half-sister,” Theon sneered, as if he had forgotten that the subject of his argument stood just a foot away from him.

Sansa could see Robb’s shoulders rise in anger, and before he could do anything to apprehend the other boy, she placed her small hand in the center of his chest. It rested over his beating heart. Sansa knew, without even uttering a single word that her brother understood her, and what she asked of him. She loved him for that.

Jon on the other hand was offered no such comfort or restraint. Arya, despite her proximity to him, was not a peaceful individual, and she quite liked seeing Jon put others in their place. Theon was no exception to this rule.

Her half-brother’s eyes narrowed into vicious slits, and before Sansa could plead for him to stop, he stormed up to Theon, practically head butting him as he neared. He grabbed the collar of Theon’s tunic and jerked him closer to where he stood, both of their gazes furious and violent with barely restrained emotion.

“I know my place. It’s you who doesn’t. Everyone here knows your little pipe dream, Greyjoy! Let me tell you that my Father doesn’t give a fuck about what you want, and neither does Sansa,” Jon snarled ferociously, practically frothing at the mouth. “She doesn’t belong to you.” He hissed, gripping Theon slightly tighter around the neck.

Theon smirked sardonically, a look of triumph on his face, as if he had held something over Jon’s head. “You’re right, bastard. She doesn’t belong to me. Sansa belongs to that golden prince in the south with his pretty castles and his blonde hair. She doesn’t belong to Winterfell.” _She doesn’t belong to you,_ were the words that were left unspoken and they hung in the air and lingered like a bad smell.

Jon glared at Theon for seconds more before shoving him away, his eyes cruel and his face twisted with some dark emotion. Sansa saw beneath the implications, and she knew of his tortuous jealousy. It radiated off of him like waves in a tempestuous sea.

Jon paused and stared right at her, causing Sansa to practically shrink into Robb’s embrace. He looked so angry in that moment, as if he was consumed by a fiery madness. She wondered if the Mad King looked that way before he burned her Grandfather and strangled her Uncle Brandon.

“No, she doesn’t belong to Winterfell. She belongs to that little golden boy in Kings Landing,” Jon hissed, his words directed at Theon, but he stared right into her watery eyes. When did she start to cry?

“She never belonged to Winterfell,” Jon all but whispered, and then walked right out, the door slamming behind him.

Sansa turned away from Robb, slipping out of his grasp. Surprisingly, she didn’t want his affection. She didn’t want anyone around her. She felt a strong need to be left alone, and if she wasn’t very soon, then the gods know what they would see.

She could hear Theon and Arya walk out quietly behind her, tactfully silent and unobtrusive.

Robb approached her, his footsteps slow and heavy, his large hand outstretched and ready to fall upon her shoulder.

She wasn’t going to cry, not in front of him anyway. Sansa was growing tired of tears.

She moved away from his touch before it could fall upon her, and she waited in silence as he took his cue to leave. Sansa could sense the confusion wafting off of him, but he didn’t ask any questions. Perhaps he knew she wouldn’t answer if he did.

Robb walked up beside her, leaned down, and kissed her cheekbone slowly and softly, as if she were a fragile bird prepared to fly away at the slightest of movements.

“We came here to tell you that Bran saw the king. He’ll be here shortly. In about twenty minutes probably. You should get ready for that, my love,” Robb said gently, unoffended when Sansa flinched away from the hand that was moving to stroke her hair.

She nodded, and he went to turn away and walk towards the door. Sansa could hear the hesitance of his footsteps, for Robb did not make it a habit of leaving his little sister when she was upset. But, like all things between them, he understood her desire for solitude, and like the gallant and lovely man he was, he left her to her own devices. He would be there if she needed him.

Sansa heard the door close and wrapped her arms around her trembling form. She loved him. Sansa loved Jon, and her subconscious eagerness to pursue the unknown had pushed them over the precipice. They walked with the damned, hand in hand, and she caused this. She was the reason for his misery, and he was the living reminder of her future unhappiness.

A knock sounded at her door and at Sansa’s permission, a shy looking maid walked in.

“The King has arrived, My Lady,” the girl said softly, and Sansa turned around, a sweet and eager smile fixed upon her face. Her blue eyes shining with joy. “And the prince?” She asked, her tone dreamy and fanciful.

The maid smiled at her Lady’s happiness, and nodded. A hysterical giggle bubbled in Sansa’s throat. She forced it down.

Sansa tilted her chin up bravely, that sickeningly saccharine beam still stretched cruelly across her face. She gathered up her skirts and strode out of her room, not at all prepared to meet her fate.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I learned how to do strike through's! I'm gonna edit those into the earlier chapters later. Enjoy!

Sansa joined her family down in the courtyard. Her mother rushed over to her immediately, her gestures jittery and her eyes wide with anxiety. Catelyn smoothed down the already tamed locks of her daughter’s hair and pinched her already flushed cheeks. Sansa felt the need to bring her hands up and comfort her mother instead, but she remained still. She knew that her mother needed to do this, if only to calm herself.

Catelyn stepped away from her with a quick kiss against her cheek, moving away to reveal Ned behind her. Her Lord Father approached her with an equally anxious look on his face, but it was mostly concealed by his stern brow, which softened as he looked at her. His large hands came up to cup her cheeks, and Sansa leaned into him. She was determined not to show her disdain for the situation, but being around her parents made her feel juvenile and small, as if she could spend the rest of her life nestled in between them, hidden from the world and its scrutiny.

“Are you ready, love?” Ned asked, and Sansa immediately peered up at him, flashing her most dazzling smile. She had to honor her father’s choice, no matter what she wished. “Of course, Father. I cannot thank you enough for this most blessed match,” Sansa said blissfully, making her words as flowery as she possibly could.

Her father caressed her face gently, a loving gleam shining in his Stark grey eyes. Sansa could have wept with shame at the sight of it.

Eventually she stepped away from him and joined the line in which her family was settling into to greet the king. It was in order of birth, so she scooted in between Bran and Robb. Arya, unsurprisingly, was not yet present. Sansa nearly rolled her eyes at her sister’s predictability.

Robb glanced over at her, his blue eyes searching and wide, his handsome face was questioning. Sansa knew that he was still thinking about the encounter that happened not too long ago in her room. She almost cringed at the concern she saw lurking beneath the creases of his features.

She wished with all her heart that she could tell Robb about the depths of her love and her sorrow over Jon, but she couldn’t. She knew down to the core of herself that what she felt was shameful, that it would tear her family apart by the seams. In her darkest moments, she could almost hear what they would say: Robb’s biting words, Arya’s vitriol, her mother’s sobs, and her father’s vehement disappointment. She and Jon would burn Winterfell to the ground in a hailstorm of fire and blood if their family knew what they had done.

Sansa offered Robb a fleeting upturn of the lips, and kept her mouth shut.

His lips quirked half-heartedly in return, but even still, Sansa could see his unwavering concern and protectiveness. For just a moment, Sansa found herself resenting his devotion.

With a larger grin, Sansa grabbed her brother’s hand gently and felt her smile widen genuinely when he tenderly squeezed her fingers. Their eyes met, both gazes soft and gentle, and Sansa could feel her heart fill with warmth and sisterly adoration. She loved her big brother. She always would, and nothing could ever change that. Not distance nor the passage of time. Her eyes watered a bit. Sansa would miss Robb dearly if she had to leave him.

“Sansa, where’s your sister?” Questioned her mother suddenly. Sansa looked away from the tender gaze of her older brother and instead met her mother’s concerned blue eyes. She shrugged half-heartedly, peering around her surroundings idly, hoping to catch a glimpse of a dark, winter rose filled, styled braid.

A small figure scurried past them, a helmet shoved on her head. With a poorly hidden chuckle, her father pulled the tiny girl back and pulled off the offending helmet to reveal Arya.

Sansa groaned at the sorry state of her sister’s mussed hair, and slipped her hand from Robb’s in order to yank Arya closer to where she stood. The older girl smoothed out her sister’s dark locks and fixed the placement of the dusky blue blooms that were escaping the careful binds of her hair.

“Arya, you almost ruined all my hard work,” Sansa grumbled, her tone frustrated, attempting to block out Robb’s chuckles lest she felt the urge to hit him. Once she was satisfied with the much improved braid of her sister, a loud and triumphant horn rung out among the courtyard.

Sansa felt her heart leap into her throat, which she attempted to conceal by plastering a completely regal expression upon her face. She was to be a queen someday, and she would learn to act the part.

Knights and servants with banners of ferocious lions and crowned stags flooded into the courtyard with a great flurry. From behind a frightening looking knight wearing a helmet with the likeness of a snarling hound, rode in a golden prince, who appeared just a year older than she.

Sansa watched his arrival warily, her heart racing a nervous rhythm in her chest. A part of her had hoped that seeing her betrothed would remove all thoughts of Jon from her mind completely, but when she looked upon the prince, she felt nothing, just eager to get the introductions over with.

She could feel Robb’s gaze upon her, searching for any hints of attraction, most likely just to get himself upset. Sansa quirked her lips up in an effort to appear pleased at the arrival of her betrothed, and from Robb’s disgusted and heated scoff, she assumed that she had succeeded. Sansa wondered when she became such a wonderful liar.

More men rode in, most she found rather uninteresting to remark upon, but the arrival of one particular knight caught her attention entirely. Jaime Lannister, for it had to be him, was wearing golden plated armor decorated with images of lions, and in the sunlight it looked as if he was the sun itself. He was a golden lion through and through. Sansa found him quite handsome, though, she felt that he did not compare to the Northern men that captured her fancy. Namely, Jon.

“Is that Jaime Lannister?” Arya asked loudly, and in Sansa’s opinion quite obnoxiously. “Shut up!” She hissed back, attempting to keep her smile when Bran rudely elbowed Arya on her other side. Sansa prayed that her sister would not retaliate. It was not even five minutes, and she feared that her family would disgrace itself in front of the king.

“Where do you think King Robert is, sweet sister?” Robb asked suddenly, wrapping his hand around her own again. Sansa shrugged, deciding not to lecture Robb on his inquiry since he had the sense not to be so loud about it. Sansa just barely refrained from shooting another glare at Arya.

After a carriage opened to reveal the rest of the royal family, a rather rotund looking man rode in. He was large and red cheeked, with vivid blue eyes that Sansa could see from where she stood. His hair was a greying raven color, and Sansa wondered if he was handsome in his youth. He must have been, for Ned Stark had always said that Robert Baratheon was a strapping, tall young man when he was fostered with him under the care of Lord Jon Arryn.

The king stopped his horse and jumped off with more grace than his size would permit, before walking over to her father. Their eyes met, their faces remaining blank. Sansa felt Robb squeeze her hand again, and she looked up at him curiously. Her brother’s face looked passive and handsome, but Sansa could see his strong jaw clench just a bit. She almost laughed at his anxiety.

She returned her gaze back to her father.

Ned and Robert peered at each other suspiciously for seconds more. “You’ve gotten fat,” King Robert remarked, his voice was deep and booming, falsely colored with disdain. Her father raised his eyebrows, his eyes flickering between the round stomach of the king and his blue eyes. Suddenly both men started laughing loudly and moved to embrace each other.

King Robert stepped away from her father, and with a hearty “Cat!”, he brought her mother in for a quick, and tight squeeze. Catelyn received his affection with as much grace as she could, but the force of his strength left her feeling quite flustered and out of place.

He shifted over to Robb and ruffled his hair good-naturedly. Sansa found herself shocked by his openly tactile gestures. Were kings allowed to be this casual?

King Robert stopped in front of her and peered at her features closely. Sansa nearly shrank under his scrutiny, but she forced herself to remain upright. She would not allow herself to be intimidated by simply being looked at.

“You’re a pretty one aren’t you?” He finally said, a bit admiringly, and Sansa tried not to feel too flattered by that. After all, he was a drunken lout of a king, and if the rumors were to be believed, a rather lecherous one at that.

He glanced at Arya dismissively, and moved to go past her, before his eyes absently drifted towards her face again. A look of complete shock overcame his jovial features and he sidestepped in order to gaze at her younger sister more closely. His hand moved upward, almost subconsciously, towards her pretty face, before he paused. Sansa looked at his features more attentively, and was astounded to see a strange sort of longing flit across his eyes as his gaze remained riveted upon Arya’s.

She could see Arya shift uncomfortably where she stood, unused to such prolonged attention.

“What’s your name, child?” King Robert asked softly, almost reverently, as he stared at her adoringly. Arya met his eyes, her fearlessness returning to her, a wicked smile cutting across her face.

Sansa saw the king blink twice at that, as if shoving back memories.

“Arya,” her sister said proudly. King Robert’s face fell a bit, and with the mention of her name, she could see that he was trying to gain back his bearings, but even then, that longing gleam did not leave his eyes.

“Do you know that you look like your Aunt Lyanna, Arya?” Asked the king quietly, his words soft, and heartbreakingly longing as he said his love’s name. Sansa felt her eyes tear up at the pure yearning she heard in his voice.

Arya nodded proudly, placing her hands upon her tiny hips, pleased that someone outside of her family had compared her to the tragic wolf-maid.

The king nodded again, his eyes roving over Arya’s features one last time, before he reached out to pat her head. When his hand fell upon her, it was careful not to squish the winter roses, and it seemed as if it were more of a tender caress than a simple touch.

He then moved away to greet Bran, but the moment of jovial meetings was gone. The king seemed to be burdened with an air of lost love and heartbreak, and Sansa knew that no one in attendance would forget that peculiar encounter between her sister and the king.

King Robert turned back to her father as he was greeting the queen. “Come, Ned. I need to pay my respects,” he said stiffly, his large hand holding a tiny multi-colored feather, his fingers running softly over the bristles.

Ned looked at the queen in front of him worriedly, his face appearing grave when he glanced back at his friend. Robert met his gaze resolutely, nodding towards the direction of the crypts once more.

“Must you do that now, my love?” Asked Cersei Lannister, her voice sweet and tender, but Sansa could detect the strain that lied beneath it.

King Robert waved off her words dismissively, and started walking towards the crypts himself, obviously expecting Ned to join him. Her father glanced at the queen once more, kissed her hand quickly, and then strode over to his monarch. Even with his back turned towards her, Sansa could detect his anger over his friend dismissing his wife so plainly. No one could ever say that Ned Stark was not an honorable sort of man, after all.

The courtyard stayed silent for seconds more, all of their eyes focused upon the graceful and beautiful queen. Sansa almost envied her. Under the light of the sun, Cersei appeared more radiant than any woman she had ever met.

The queen turned towards her mother, smiling serenely as she greeted her. Like her husband, she moved down the line of her family to introduce herself, though it was apparent that she paid no attention to the names her family had offered her. In that moment, a seed of disdain had planted itself inside Sansa’s gentle heart. Queens were supposed to be kind and compassionate, not dismissive and arrogant. If she looked closer to the queen, she could have seen that it was not a regal air that Cersei carried, but a rather haughty one that Sansa knew plagued her not too long ago. She nearly scoffed at her earlier foolishness.

She stopped in front of her after moving past Robb. Her eyes drifted to their intertwined hands and fixated on them, her eyes turning hard and suspicious. Sansa resisted the urge to force her hand back, knowing that it would only fuel whatever wretched inclinations she already had stirring in her mind. The queen’s gaze met hers, and Sansa nearly found herself breathless at her stunning beauty. She had thought herself beautiful, but she was nothing compared to the woman in front of her.

“Hello, little dove. What is your name?” Cersei asked sweetly, her hand reaching up to caress the sides of Sansa’s porcelain cheeks. She nearly shivered at her cool, almost dead touch. Everything about the woman in front of her felt off, as if every move she made was calculated and hidden under hundreds of layers of false kindness. Cersei Lannister was a walking contradiction, a masterful hypocrite. Sansa would be sure to remember that.

“Your Grace,” Sansa said, curtseying expertly, lowering her sky blue eyes in a false show of submission. With a shiver, she realized how visibly pleased the queen was to see her lower herself so. “My name is Sansa, Your Grace,” She answered dutifully, her eyes still kept to the floor.

“Sansa,” the queen hummed thoughtfully. “That is quite a beautiful name, and for such a stunning girl. It suits you,” Queen Cersei said softly, tilting Sansa’s face up with the tip of one pale finger, their eyes meeting. Her face was sweet as she spoke, and filled with grace, but her eyes were strange. Cersei’s emerald green eyes glittered with malice and spite. Sansa could not see, for the life of her, what she had done to upset the queen in the scant few minutes that they had just spent in each other’s company.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Sansa replied mindlessly, allowing a dazzling smile to spread across her breathtaking features. The queen’s eyes widened suddenly, her pink mouth dropping open slightly. Her expression flickered then, her face tightening severely, her previously pleasing features curling into something so angry and hateful that Sansa felt shocked at the severity of it. Before anyone else could notice, Cersei’s expression smoothed into one of an effortless grace again, her previous bitterness fading into a distant memory. If Sansa didn’t know better, she would have assumed that she had just imagined it.

The queen moved away from her and went to join Catelyn, her twin brother following close behind. Jaime Lannister spared her a glance, his eyes curious, but Sansa decided that she had enough of questioning the motives of the Lannisters. She had no interest in seeking answers for this particular family’s behavior.

Most of the royal entourage had scattered apart, servants joining her own family’s servants, the knights running to the training grounds. Rickon had even left with their mother, but Sansa would have expected that. The only ones who remained were her brothers, her sister, and the queen’s golden-haired children.

Joffrey met her eyes suddenly, and Sansa slipped her hand from Robb’s in order to fold her own fingers together. She resisted the urge to wring them anxiously as he approached her.

She felt eyes boring holes into the back of her head, and without even looking back, she could tell who it was. Jon could contend with his jealousy, she thought, a bit miffed. She had not forgotten his earlier behavior towards Theon.

The prince stopped in front of her, a strange glint in his eyes, a smile curling at the end of his lips. His lips were wormy and thin, as if two insects lied where his mouth should have been. They were nothing like Jon’s, whose lips were full and soft to the touch. She did not even attempt to scold herself for comparing the two men. Even then, she knew that it would be a habit that she would fall back on for the rest of her life.

“My Lady,” Prince Joffrey said softly, his green eyes meeting hers. His eyes were just like his mother’s. In fact, everything about him echoed something of Cersei Lannister. Joffrey’s hair was the same golden hue, and his curls even fell over his high collar the way his mother’s did. He had nothing of his father’s. It made her uncomfortable to know that she was engaged to a boy that was so similar to that hateful woman.

“Your Grace,” Sansa greeted back, curtseying in much the same way that she did earlier towards the queen. Like her, everything about this boy felt off and strange, but she could not pinpoint why. It seemed as if the prince was more adept at concealing his eccentricities than his mother.

Prince Joffrey moved to grab her hand and Sansa allowed him to, flashing him a warm smile in an effort to hide the unpleasant shiver that ran up her arm from where he touched her. “You are very beautiful, My Lady. In fact, they sing songs of your beauty down in the South,” Joffrey said gallantly, sounding very much like Robb did whenever he used his “Lord’s Voice” to tease her. She hoped that he did not sound like that all the time, for she feared that it would make her laugh. Was she so different from the girl she had been just a few months ago? Without a doubt, she knew that the Sansa of old would have gobbled up his false affection and admiration.

“Do they, My Prince? I have not heard them,” Sansa replied back impulsively, unwillingly making a mockery out of his compliment. The sounds of Robb and Jon guffawing behind her made it apparent that it was quite obvious what she had done.

The prince’s gentle hold on her hand tightened into a painful grip, his eyes narrowing with malice. Unlike his mother, he did not attempt to hide it.

Sansa nearly gasped at the sensation, but she kept her mouth shut. She did not want to cause a scene.

“Thank you, Your Grace! I did not know that there were songs of my looks. I am most pleased to hear about that,” Sansa said quickly, schooling her poorly disguised wince into a radiant smile.

The prince looked at her severely for seconds more, before releasing her from his vice grip. He nodded at her once and then turned to walk towards the Great Hall, his siblings following close behind.

Robb, Jon and Theon walked in the direction of the training grounds, eager to fight Southern knights.

Sansa could feel Jon’s burning gaze upon her, but she ignored it, too busy refraining from the urge to look at her smarting wrist. He passed her without issue, Arya and Bran running ahead of him. She knew he’d attempt to speak with her later.

When they were all gone, Sansa pulled down the sleeve of her lavender gown and gasped at what she saw.

Red lines in the shape of thin, spindly fingers tattooed her wrist in a ghostly image of the painful grip the prince had handled her with. Her heart raced in her chest nervously, a nauseous feeling circling in her belly.

Her dear betrothed had harmed her within the first few minutes of them meeting. With one comment, he was incensed enough to physically mark her. It was not much of an injury, it was hardly anything really, but the whispers of possibly bloody future encounters lingered in Sansa’s tortured mind.

She felt cold and numb, images of blood running down her porcelain back persisted as a plague in her thoughts.

 

* * *

 

 Jon walked with his brother, his younger siblings playing in front of him, Theon on the other side of Robb.

He could not stop thinking of that pampered little prince, the damned prick that thought he had the right touch Sansa in any way. He had seen the shock that flitted across her beautiful face, and the wince that immediately followed. It took all the self-control he had not to attack the little shit.

He was surprised that Robb had not noticed. Usually Robb noticed every single change that came from Sansa’s moods, but it seemed that his brother was too excited at the thought of fighting Southern knights to focus on his little sister.

Jon suddenly paused where he stood, letting the others walk in front of him. Theon turned around, confusion lining his features. “What are you doing, Snow? I thought you wanted to go the training grounds?” The older boy asked, his question causing Robb to stop in place.

Jon shrugged in reply, motioning towards the castle behind him. “I’ll go later. You lads can go ahead. I think I’m going to rest for a bit,” Jon said, shoving his hands in his jerkin pockets, praying to the old gods that they would buy his fib. He had never been a very good liar.

Robb and Theon glanced at each other, before shrugging slightly. “Alright, Snow,” Robb said teasingly, and Jon smiled at the jeer he knew was coming. “I know you’re afraid of the ass kicking that those pansy knights are going to give you, but I’ll spare you the embarrassment,” Robb called, cupping his hands around his mouth in order for his words to sound louder.

Jon chuckled a bit, and stooped forwards as if relieved. “I appreciate the help, Stark!” Jon answered, laughing outright when he saw Robb flip him off.

He turned around, walking quickly towards the castle, a certain destination fixed in his mind. As if second nature, as if he had been there a thousand times, which he had most certainly not, Sansa’s door came into his peripheral.

He peered around suspiciously to check if anyone was nearby, before raising his fist to knock at her door. The wood opened to reveal the mussed looking form of his half-sister, her hair in disarray, rose petals falling down around her hair. Even still, Jon found her radiant beyond anything he had ever seen.

Sansa’s blue eyes narrowed at him in exasperation, and before he could voice a complaint, she grabbed his bicep and yanked him inside.

She closed the door behind her softly, looking around hurriedly, much in the same way that he did.

“What are you doing here, Jon?” Sansa asked lowly, folding her arms under her breasts. Jon attempted not to look.

“To visit you, of course,” Jon replied simply, causing Sansa’s eyes to narrow further. Everything about her seemed tense and restrained, as if she were anticipating something terrible.

Jon softened at the realization and approached her, bringing her smaller form into his arms. Sansa practically melted within his embrace, and Jon had never felt more complete than with her in his hold.

For weeks he hated the effect she had on him, and every night he would pray to the old gods for guidance on how to resist her, but there was nothing to be done. Sansa was not a thing to be spurned or rejected. No, she was made to be loved and cherished and pampered like the natural born queen she was. Make no mistake, he still hated his weakness, his bastard’s lust, but it was so much more than that now. It had to be, if not, then he would not feel as strongly as he did.

“What troubles you, my love?” Jon asked tenderly, stroking her crimson locks softly, an expression of limitless adoration coming over his hard features.

Sansa shook her head, burying her face within the folds of his black tunic. “I love you, Jon. You know that don’t you? It kills me knowing that I have to marry Joffrey,” Sansa said desperately, moving her face in order to meet his gaze, the tears in her eyes felt like a stab to Jon’s heart.

That feverish envy started to lick at his veins again at the mention of her betrothed, but he forced it down harshly. Sansa needed his love and affection, not his ruinous jealously. The gods knew how limited their time together was. He did not wish to stain the memories more than he possibly could.

“I know, sweet girl, I know,” Jon whispered, bringing her in for another hug, relishing the soft feel of her against his chest. Everything about her was so magnificent, so ethereal. She was like a goddess sent to calm his weary soul. He wondered if it was profane of him to think of worshipping at her alter instead of his father’s gods.

“I wish you could come with me to Kings Landing,” Sansa replied tearfully, and then as if struck by lightning, she looked at him, her eyes wide.

“You can come with me, Jon! Become my sworn sword and we will never have to part! We can live as Aemon and Naerys did!” Sansa said excitedly, her arms tightening around him. Jon stood silently, as if in shock, his lips unmoving when Sansa reached up to kiss him.

Her lips were soft and sinfully sweet against his own, but Jon found himself unable to respond, her words circling through his mind. Sansa’s concerned eyes met his own. “What’s wrong, my love?” She asked slowly, her hands reaching up to caress his bearded jaw. Jon resisted the urge to lean into her touch.

“I won’t do that, Sansa. I won’t subject myself to that,” Jon answered lowly, bringing her soft hands away from his face.

Sansa’s eyebrows furrowed in distress, tears filling her beautiful eyes. Jon nearly wept at her pain. “Why not?” She asked softly, bringing her arms up to wrap around her middle.

“Sansa, I cannot watch you marry him. I’m joining the Nights Watch. You knew that I have always wanted to,” Jon said calmly, resisting the urge to wince when he saw anger cloud his love’s face.

“You cannot watch me marry him?” Sansa scoffed, her features darkening with a bitter disbelief. “Jon, you seem to forget that I’m the one marrying him, not you! Did you forget that you promised to protect me! A wolf protects its own, do you remember!” Sansa shouted, her fists clenched at her sides.

Jon flinched at the reminder, remembering full well what she was talking about. “I could never forget, sweet girl. That was our first kiss,” Jon whispered softly.

Sansa visibly melted at his words, tears streaming down her porcelain cheeks. Jon stepped forward, reaching out to bring her within the circle of his arms, feeling a strong urge to kiss away her tears.

She turned away from him, her thin shoulders shaking as she softly cried. “Please go, Jon. I wish to be alone,” Sansa whispered hoarsely, her voice strained with the effort to hide her already obvious tears.

Jon hesitated, looking at her pleadingly, not wanting to leave her in such a sorry state, but she wanted to be left alone in her grief. He could understand that perfectly. He approached her cautiously, dropping his hands to her shoulders, feeling his half-sister surrender to his touch. He dropped a long kiss to the top of her scarlet hair, a few of his own tears falling upon her luscious tresses.

He pressed his rough cheek to the silk of hair, and nuzzled it slightly, enraptured by the sweet scent. Slowly, he pulled away from her embrace and walked towards the door, the softness of her skin a burning brand against his own. A weary heartbreak flooding his strong chest.

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> O, beware, my lord, of jealousy; It is the green-eyed monster, which doth mock the meat it feeds on."- William Shakespeare, Othello

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! It's been a very busy week and I wasn't able to write as much as I wanted to during those days. When I was writing this chapter, I was listening to the song El Tango de Roxanne, so I recommend listening to that while you read this. It's a very good song, and you'll see it's influence towards the later portion of the chapter. I also quote the Borgias twice in here so see if you can catch it! Enjoy!

Sansa leaned over the table top of her vanity, her scarlet hair forming a curtain around her face. Rose petals fell softly around her neck and down her shoulders, landing delicately at the tips of her fingers. She looked up, her blue eyes red and raw from crying, grabbing a stray petal that hung from her braid. The contrast of the crimson of the flower and the fair skin of her hand almost burned her bleary eyes.

A strong, almost animalistic fury took hold of Sansa’s tender heart, and with a great cry, she viciously raked her hands through her hair. Rose petals fell from her fingers, and when they met the floor, Sansa stomped on them ineffectually, feeling no happiness as she crushed them under her foot.

When the wrath left her, all that was left was a heartbreaking sorrow. Sansa fell against the table of her vanity, tears streaming down her face, an aching hole in her chest where her heart should have been.

She was so tired of crying, but it was all she could do. The gods had been cruel when they deemed it fit for her to love Jon, and she could not see what she did to incur their ire.

Sansa turned to peer into the reflection of her vanity mirror, nearly gasping when she saw her horrid appearance. Her eyes were red and teary, her face a blotchy mess, her hair stuck in different directions. She looked like a grieving widow, or a foolish girl. In a way, she supposed that she was both. She lost the boy she had loved, and she allowed herself to love him in the first place.

Sansa reached out and touched the cold glass of her mirror, her finger running over the reflection of her ruddy cheeks.

Jon refused her offer. He had said that he would not subject himself to the pain of seeing her wed another. Little did he know that her pain was more acute than his. While her half-brother wished to bury his head in the snow at The Wall, Sansa would have to marry the prince and bear his children. She would live every day under the shadow of him and his mother, locked in a gilded cage that would only grow tighter with each passing day.

_Am I so hard to love?_

Sansa shook her head at the thought, and walked over to a bowl of water in her room. Dinner would start soon, and she knew that she couldn’t waltz in looking as horrid as she did.

At the end of the day, it wouldn’t matter whether Jon loved her or not, or whether she loved him. Their paths would diverge, as they were destined to, and they would never see each other again. She would live in Kings Landing, while Jon would serve as a Brother of the Nights Watch with her Uncle Benjen. The facts of their reality could not be changed and neither could their destinies, no matter what they wished.

Sansa approached her closet, unshed tears blurring her vision once again. She didn’t allow them to fall.

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa strode into the Great Hall, and was immediately bombarded by the sounds of conversation and merry singing. She looked over to where the lower tables were, masochistically hoping to catch a glimpse of her beloved, but the familiar sight of his raven curls evaded her. She didn’t know whether to take that as a blessing or a curse.

“Sansa!” A voice called from behind her. Sansa turned around slightly to see her younger sister barrel towards her, the blue winter roses still weaved into her hair.

“Hello, Arya,” Sansa greeted quietly. Her voice still felt raw from her earlier sobs.

Arya peered at her strangely as she approached, her eyes lingering around the red-lined skin of Sansa’s eyelids. Sansa noticed the penetrating stare and snapped her head around swiftly, cursing herself for not ridding her appearance of all hints of her earlier episode.

“Are you going to go sit at the table, or are you just going to stand around looking stupid?” Arya teased, and then growled when Sansa softly thwacked at her head. “Don’t be rude,” she chastised playfully, causing both sisters to smile.

Sansa grabbed Arya’s hand and lead her to the table where they would be eating their dinner. Truthfully, Sansa felt quite ill at the thought of consuming anything, but she forced herself to take a seat. She was supposed to look besotted and foolishly in love. Refusing to eat would only contradict that.

“Little Dove,” Cersei Lannister called cooingly as Sansa went to greet her mother. The younger lady straightened up immediately, and walked over to where the queen was.

Cersei looked breathtakingly beautiful, as she always did, and the dim lighting the candles offered only served to make her appear more alluring, but all Sansa could see was the venom that hid beneath the woman’s smile.

Her golden hair was done up in the Southern style, a look that Sansa often tried to imitate just  a few months ago, but now it just appeared ridiculous to her. How could she have ever found it appealing?

“Yes, Your Grace?” Sansa questioned curiously, her eyes downcast and demure. She attempted to appear as timid and as stupid as possible, all the while still maintaining her renowned grace. It frightened her how well of a liar she became in just a few weeks.

“That dress is beautiful, child. Did you make it yourself?” Cersei questioned. It was apparent that she was trying to compliment her, but all Sansa could hear was a sardonic mocking.

Sansa looked down at her dress. It was a dove grey gown of soft velvet with white lace trimming. The colors were Stark colors, and she chose it just for that purpose. Sansa would assimilate to the South later when she had to.

“Yes, Your Grace. I did make it myself,” Sansa answered proudly, for she had always taken great pleasure in her feminine hobbies.

Cersei nodded once more, her eyes lingering enviously on Sansa’s lithe and womanly form, before looking out into the crowd of the other guests. Sansa followed her gaze.

Her father stood just a few feet away, speaking warmly with her Uncle Benjen, and Sansa reminded herself that she should greet him later. Close to the pair stood King Robert, his hands wrapped around a woman’s rotund waist, his ruddy face buried into her large breasts. Sansa’s mouth curled slightly at the crass sight.

She glanced over at the queen, a bit pitifully, and saw Cersei’s mouth tighten at the edges. Almost immediately, Sansa could tell that it was not jealousy that tormented the queen, Jon was among the jealous sort as she now knew, but instead it was embarrassment. She was enraged by her husband’s habit of publically humiliating her in front of others. Sansa felt as though she could empathize with that.

Now that the queen was paying her no mind, Sansa walked away and went to go sit by Jeyne Poole, her dearest friend. Jeyne was a sweet girl, if a slight bit airheaded, but that did not bother Sansa too much. Not every girl grew up as fast as she did. After all, most young girls didn’t happen to fall for their half-brothers. Sansa brutally dismissed the errant and bitter thought, determined not to think of Jon.

“Hi, Sansa!” Jeyne greeted excitedly, patting the seat next to her. “I saved a seat for you!”

Sansa beamed at her friend, unconsciously adopting her old and silly persona of girl-hood naiveté. “Hello, Jeyne! I adore your hair!” Sansa said, though she really didn’t. It was done up in the same gravity-defying style that Southern women preferred. She tried to ignore the guilt she felt at lying to her friend.

Jeyne’s smile grew, and she reached up to softly touch the top of her hair. “Thank you, Sansa. You look beautiful. I’m sure that when the prince sees you he’ll be blown away! I was nearly weeping with excitement when he rode in earlier,” Jeyne said, flushing slightly as she gushed.

Sansa merely smiled at her friend, her stomach churning with anxiety as her thoughts drifted to Prince Joffrey. She tried to keep her smile fixed to her face, and attempted to feign a love-stricken look. “Do you really think he would? Oh Jeyne! I cannot wait to see him again! He is a perfect golden lion, and so handsome too!” Sansa gushed sweetly, her hands coming up to rest over her breasts, her heart beating painfully against her rib cage. She felt as if she was living a lie, and she nearly started to weep when she realized she would be playing this game for the rest of her life.

Jeyne, oblivious to her friend’s plight, nodded in earnest, a slight envy starting to creep in at the edges of her smile. Sansa nearly scoffed at the sight. If only her friend knew what the prince truly was. Her wrist started to burn when she pictured his smarmy face.

“Well, you are very lucky, Sansa. Not everyone can marry a prince,” Jeyne said wistfully, her brown eyes drifting over to where Robb sat with Theon.

Sansa’s smile fell, a scowl starting to darken her features. When they were younger, Jeyne had entertained the idea of wedding Robb and becoming the Lady of Winterfell, which always succeeded in irritating Sansa. It seemed as if it still did.

“Yes, I suppose I am quite lucky in that way,” Sansa remarked airily, waving her hand dismissively. Jeyne nodded at her and then quickly launched into another topic, unknowingly offering Sansa some reprieve.

For a while the festivities continued without interruption, and at one point, Ghost had even scampered up to her and curled around her legs. Despite her irritation towards Jon, Sansa accepted his direwolf’s affection eagerly, her heart bursting with warmth towards the small creature.

The sudden sound of someone banging their hands loudly against wood, turned everyone’s attention to the high table. King Robert stood at the head of the table, swaying slightly, her stoic father beside him. The King appeared entirely intoxicated, his cheeks blotchy and his blue eyes glazed.

“I have an announcement!” The King bellowed, his mug of ale sloshing in his hand as he moved, looking as if he was about to keel over where he stood. “Years ago, an alliance between House Baratheon and House Stark was struck. Unfortunately”- King Robert’s jovial tone mellowed slightly- “that alliance was not fulfilled. Today, that will be rectified. My son, Joffrey Baratheon will wed Lady Sansa Stark in the near future. May we wish them many blessings on a fruitful marriage!” King Robert cried, raising his mug in celebration, his voice nearly getting drowned out by deafening cheers.

Demands for the newly betrothed couple to stand together rang out around the room, and before Sansa could think to object, Jeyne was ushering her to stand beside Joffrey. The prince eyed her, and Sansa felt sick standing so near to him. He was a disease, she could tell.

He grasped her hand, loosely, almost unwillingly, and Sansa wondered whether he wanted this marriage as much as she did. Which was to say, that she didn’t desire it at all.

Through the corner of her eye, Sansa caught a glimpse of a raven colored head pushing through the crowd furiously. Her eyes remained riveted on his heaving shoulders, and even from where she stood, she could see the tension that stiffened his body. His envy rolled off of him in waves.

Sansa felt her battered heart pulse painfully, the clammy hand held in hers gripping her almost as tortuously.

 

* * *

 

 

Jon stormed into the training grounds, his chest heaving with exertion, his vision blurry and clouded by sorrow.

An agonizing, maddening flame licked at his veins and ate him whole. He felt as if he was being consumed by dragon fire, or by something equally as terrible. His jealousy raged throughout his body like a disease, infecting his every breath and thought.

When he saw the golden prick touch Sansa, he almost sicked Ghost on him right then and there, damn the consequences, but then the thought of what would happen to Sansa gave him pause. If anyone knew of what they felt for each other, then Sansa would be ruined. She would be reviled and hated, and Jon could not stand the idea of being the reason for her ruination.

And so, instead of blowing up into a jealous rage in the middle of the Great Hall, Jon had simply charged outside. If he had to look at that pompous little shit’s face for half a second more, then he feared that he would not have been able to control his impulses.

Shaking his head, Jon roughly grabbed a blunted practice sword, and swung furiously at the cloth dummy in front of him. He continued to attack the defenseless thing, his movements becoming less precise as he went on. Soon enough, Jon had abandoned all pretense, and dropped his weapon, swinging his fists furiously at his invisible opponent.

The wooden post behind the dummy hurt his knuckles as he hit it, but the pain felt good and cathartic. Joffrey’s face kept popping up in his mind’s eye, and before he knew it, Jon threw his fists even harder than before. His grunts of exertion became animalistic cries, half sobs, half screams of rage.

Blood streamed down the open cuts of his torn knuckles, and as if all his energy left him at once, Jon fell down to the floor, sobbing in earnest.

In his mind he kept picturing Sansa with the golden prince: kissing him sweetly, offering her body to him, free to express her affection for him without the world’s scrutiny. He felt the flames heat his blood again, but he could not find the will to stand.

Desperate to relieve himself of the tortuous images, Jon banged his head repeatedly against the wooden floor, small rivulets of blood running down his injured forehead.

“Sansa,” he moaned sorrowfully. “Sansa, Sansa, Sansa…”

He loved her so much, to an extent that bordered on unhealthy. But that was their sin wasn’t it? Their punishment? The kind of love they shared was never meant to thrive or be fulfilled. It was meant to taint and burn and destroy. A love like theirs was meant to inflict pain of the acutest kind, not to soothe and heal.

It was an impossible love, and those types of loves were meant to become destructive addictions, and not panaceas for the tortured souls. From their very first moment of _what if?_   they were destined to be doomed lovers.

Jon’s sobs increased in their vigor at the realization.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so, so sorry for the long wait, but now that school is really starting to go into motion, I'm afraid that the updates aren't going to be as quick. Now, that's not to say that you guys are gonna have to wait months or anything, but there are times where it's gonna take at least a couple of weeks to update. Anyway, I hope that you enjoy this one!

Sansa woke the next morning with her mother’s face hanging over her own. Catelyn’s eyes were eager and bright, and almost immediately Sansa had to stifle a groan. Her chest still ached with a heartbreak that seemed near constant now, and she found that she had no energy to deal with her mother’s expectations. Much less, her prideful joy.

“Oh, my darling!” Catelyn exclaimed loudly, much too loudly for Sansa’s tired mind, as her mother clapped her hands in excitement. “You looked so beautiful yesterday standing next to the prince. It gave me a glimpse into your future. You, standing so stunning and regal, and Prince Joffrey as a king by your side,” her mother said, practically sighing in an uncharacteristic show of girlish excitement. “Of course, by the time Prince Joffrey is king, you two will most likely have a few babes crawling around.”

Sansa felt her stomach churn at the thought of bearing Joffrey’s children, but she forced down her nausea and stayed silent. She hoped that her mother would leave her in peace, if only to rest for a couple minutes more, but Catelyn Stark seemed eager to rouse her daughter for some reason that Sansa remained ignorant to.

Even still, Sansa turned her head back into the goose down pillow, subconsciously wishing to see a familiar pair of grey eyes in her dreams.

“Wake up, sweetling.” Sansa felt a pang in her heart at the familiar endearment, thoughts of Jon’s desperate kisses flooding her mind like a tempest. “You are to sew with your sister and the princess Myrcella today,” her mother reminded gently, ignoring Sansa’s muffled scoff.

Sansa turned her entire body away from her mother, indicating her desire to be left alone.

“I think not, young lady,” Catelyn huffed, pulling away Sansa’s furs. Sansa groaned this time. “Please, Mother. A few minutes more.”

Catelyn shook her head once again, and yanked harder at the covers, exposing her daughter’s resting form. “Sansa, please. It is very unusual for you to be acting so strangely,” her mother remarked, before humming thoughtfully. “Are you feeling ill, love?” She asked, placing her hand daintily over Sansa’s forehead.

Sansa shook her head slightly, irritated at her mother’s persistence, wishing to be left alone, but knowing that she could not be. She moved to get up from her bed, stifling a soft whimper when she unwillingly left the warm confines of her furs.

The celebration lasted well into the night, and Sansa could not escape to sleep until much later, and even then she found almost no rest. Thoughts of marrying Joffrey and leaving Jon clouded her mind until she could hardly think of anything else. Overall, she found the night tortuous, almost too painful to be borne. She felt that familiar stinging pain in her heart, but it was easier to ignore now. Sansa was becoming too used to it.

_Is this what I am now? A miserable girl? I remember when I used to smile with no reservations._

Sansa shook away her despondent thoughts. She was a girl made of reservations now, it seemed.

Catelyn walked to her daughter’s closet and picked out a Tully blue dress, the same beautiful shade as Sansa’s oceanic eyes. She then walked over to Sansa’s vanity to retrieve a silver brush. Sansa stared thoughtfully at the item in her mother’s hand. Her father gave it to her as a name day present for her eleventh year. She remembered his solemn face brightening as he handed it to her, and then his boisterous laugh when she attacked with kisses for it. Sansa’s lips quirked in a bittersweet fashion. Her life used to be so simple, and she used to be a girl that could be so easily pleased. Now it felt as she could never be satisfied again.

Her mother waited by the vanity, and Sansa stood to approach her. She sat down on the plush chair before her mirror and nearly winced at the sight of herself. Her hair was mussed and ragged, her cheeks ruddy, and the skin under her eyes were a light lavender due to her restless night.

It seemed as if Catelyn noticed the poor state of her daughter as well.

“Are you alright, my darling?” She cooed softly, her brushstrokes calming and euphoric against Sansa’s sensitive scalp. Sansa nodded as her answer, trying her utmost not to fall asleep against her mother’s hand.

“You look tired, Sansa. Are you sure you are feeling well? I am sure Queen Cersei will not mind if you do not sew with her today,” Catelyn suggested with a false surety. Sansa had to withhold an eager nod. She knew perfectly well what Cersei would think if she wasn’t there with the other ladies today, and with how her uncertain her mother looked at her own words, it seemed as if she had an inkling of the queen’s possible reaction as well. Sansa smothered down a bitter chuckle. She knew she had not inherited her shrewd intuition from her father.

Sansa shook her head. “No, Mother, please. We must sew with the queen! I am positive that she is wonderful with the needle. Better than me! Can you imagine if she taught me a bit?” Sansa squealed excitedly, gesticulating with her hands in a fluttery gesture.

She kept her eyes on Catelyn, praying to the old gods that her perceptive mother would not see through her deception. Sansa knew how to act like a snobbish and naïve young lady, but she was afraid of what could be seen from her eyes. Jon was not much of a liar, not at all actually, but when he did lie, his eyes would fixate on random points and stay there, as if he could not look at another person without cringing.

Catelyn stared at her for a long moment, her eyes questioning and sharp. Sansa felt her palms perspire slightly, but she fought to keep that eager look fixed upon her face. Her mother’s eyes roamed over her features once more before she nodded minutely.  She dropped a loving kiss to Sansa’s brow and ran her pale hand through her daughter’s silken waves. “I’ll see you soon, darling.” Sansa jerked her head into an abrupt nod, whispering a hoarse goodbye to her mother’s retreating form.

When the heavy, wooden door shut behind her with a loud thump, Sansa fell back against the plush seat, sighing heavily in relief. Her heart raced in anticipation and fear, and with her mother standing so strong before her, all Sansa wanted to do was throw herself at her feet and beg to be released from Joffrey. But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. At least, not at the risk of endangering her family. She saw the malice that lurked beneath the brilliant green of Cersei Lannister’s eyes, and she knew with an almost definite certainty what that woman would do to the Starks if they crossed her.

Sansa sighed once more, though this time with a steeled reserve. She was not accustomed to the idea of protecting her family. In fact, it was never expected for the thought to even cross her mind. No, that particular honor was allocated to Robb. But even still, Sansa knew what she had to do, what had to be done. She couldn’t fight, or whine, or beg to be released from the clutches of the Lannisters. However, she could play their fatal game and use the cards that life saw fit to bestow her, damn her happiness.

Sansa peered at her reflection once again, at her red eyes and blotchy cheeks. She exhaled deeply and fingered strands of her crimson locks, all the while practicing her most pleasing smile. A breathtaking upturn of the lips that mixed the looks of both a modest maiden and a regal monarch. Yes, she would play their game.

_Courtesy is a lady’s armor._

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa strode into her mother’s solar where she knew the group of ladies were meeting. She was dressed in the Tully blue velvet gown her mother chose, and she found that she quite liked how the soft fabric felt against her chilled skin.

Despite her being raised in the North, Sansa hated the brisk, frigid weather that she was so often surrounded by. The days where the sun shone the brightest and warmed the already cool temperatures, were her favorites. It was in those afternoons where she would frequent the hot springs with her siblings and enjoy the feel of the sun against her shoulders.

However, there was something about this particular day that chilled her more than usual, and it was not an altogether bodily sensation. It stemmed from her stomach and crept outward where it permeated around her like a foul odor. The feeling reminded her of how Lady would perk up at times where she sensed something was not quite right, or how the birds that flew around Winterfell would scatter away at the slightest sound of thunder. The air around her felt cold and electric, and a puzzling wariness existed within the depths of her person, waiting and breathing for the other pieces to fall.

Sansa shuddered violently, dismissing her eerie musings. _I am going mad,_ she thought, almost amused. _Would Jon Snow ever love a mad woman?_

Sansa nodded towards a gaggle of Southern women politely, her hands intertwined before her. She spotted Arya sitting next to a chatting Myrcella, looking altogether miserable, though she knew it had to do more with sewing than whatever the princess was saying. Regardless, Sansa swooped in to save her sister.

“Hello, Arya. Good morning Princess Myrcella,” Sansa said politely, curtsying primly in front of the princess. Myrcella had her mother’s stunning beauty, and if Sansa looked closer, she could see Ser Jaime’s features on her face as well. She supposed that made sense. The queen and her brother were twins, after all.

Arya grunted in place of a greeting, while the princess peered shyly up at the redheaded beauty before her. “Hello, Lady Sansa. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard that you are quite talented with a needle, and while my Septa says I am too, I am sure that are a true artist at it,” Myrcella complimented bashfully, her tone sweet and true.

Sansa could already start to feel affection blossom in her heart for the young royal. Although she had Cersei’s face, Myrcella had not an ounce of her mother’s character. She was kind and genuine, that much Sansa could see. It truly astounded her how the girl in front of her could be related to her beast of a fiancé.

Sansa smiled sweetly. “Thank you, Your Grace. However, I am sure that you don’t need any instruction from me,” Sansa said, her eyes flickering over to Arya’s bored expression. She resisted the urge to kick her infuriating sister.

She took a seat beside Myrcella and picked up a cuff she had been making for Robb. It was a rather handsome accessory, with its Stark coloring and silver embroidery. She looked around discretely, noting the absence of the queen and her mother almost immediately.

“Princess, if you do not mind my asking, do you know where Queen Cersei is? Or my mother?”

Myrcella shook her head, glancing around like Sansa did just a moment before. “No, my lady, I do not. And please call me Myrcella.”

Sansa smiled and nodded at the younger girl, trying to ignore how the awful curdling in her belly heightened to an almost painful degree.

 

* * *

 

 

The rest of their time spent sewing passed by without issue, though the queen and Catelyn remained missing. Sansa found relief in Cersei’s absence, but it was her mother’s that distressed her. Catelyn Stark was a punctual woman, and an effective one. There was no way that she would skip out on hosting her guests without a valid reason.

It seemed as if Arya sensed her uneasiness, for when Sansa walked out, she could feel her sister’s skinny arm wrap around her own.

They walked in silence together. In fact, the whole of Winterfell lied silent and still. Intellectually, it was because Sansa knew that most of the men were gone with the king and her father on a hunting excursion, but it only added to her unsettled feeling.

The courtyard below them was empty, save for a few straggling servants, and even though Sansa could see Arya’s luminescent eyes trained in that direction, it was the old and decrepit tower across from where she stood that captured her attention. Her stomach lurched at the sight, and Sansa nearly gagged at the overwhelming anxiety that suddenly flooded throughout the entirety of her body. There was a still quality to the air, like how the sky looked before a bolt of lightning shot through it.

And then she heard it. Then they both heard it.

_“Oh, gods! Bran! Oh, gods, please!”_


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! And with a longer chapter this time! I hope you guys enjoy it and I'm sorry for the longer wait!

_“Oh gods! Bran! Oh gods, please!”_

Both sisters rushed off in a flurry of movement, their skirts swirling behind them like waves in a coming storm. The sun hid from their frantic eyes, and maybe it was for some divine reason. Days had no right to be so beautiful when there was such a nervous energy in the air.

Sansa couldn’t see straight. Her sight was set on a focal point towards the ruined tower, where the blood curdling scream had originated. It was her mother’s voice. She could recognize its familiar cadence, the way her tone changed with each passing breath, and the pauses she took when she breathed. That thought only pushed Sansa to run faster, harder, to catch up with her swift-footed sister in front of her.

Arya’s brown locks flew behind her in the wind, the winter roses she became so fond of wearing, falling from her chocolate tresses. If Sansa were not so nauseous with anxiety, she might have found the energy to compliment her sister.

Eventually, Arya stopped in front of her so suddenly that Sansa nearly crashed into her petite frame. When her eyes caught sight of what made her sister stop though, she rushed forward again, bile building in her throat.

In front of them stood their weeping mother, the cries bubbling from her mouth sounding horrifying and severe in the all-consuming grief it portrayed. Their brother Bran- _their baby bother oh gods! -_ lied beneath her, his little body twisted and still. His face was pale, blank, and stiff. He had the look of a corpse.

Sansa turned suddenly and came crashing to her knees, vomit spilling out of throat like a wretched waterfall, coating her tongue in its disgusting flavor.

She couldn’t stop gagging, heaving. It felt as if her body was trying to rid itself of every content that still dwelled within her. Her eyes were bleary and they stung horribly, tears trailing down her face in a constant stream. In her mind’s eye, she kept seeing his pale face, his contorted body, and with every reimagining, her gagging started anew.

Behind her, she could hear Arya screeching for help, her voice sounding panicked and strained. Sansa felt shame blossom briefly within her at the thought of leaving her little sister to call for assistance when she was so indisposed, but her continuous stream of vomit left her unable to dwell on that train of thought for too long.

It could have been seconds, hours, _days_ , before anyone came. Sansa couldn’t have been able to tell, but eventually there was a flurry of movement behind her crouched form. From the corner of her eye, she could see her mother being dragged away from the still body of Bran, and Arya stumbling around, half-blind, next to her.

Someone was prodding her, moving her hair, speaking to her in hushed and calming whispers behind her ear, but Sansa didn’t want to move. She wanted to sit there for the rest of eternity and wish this all away. She wanted to wake up in bed, to be greeted by warm grey eyes, and large gentle hands. She wanted Jon. She wanted nothing. She wanted to be swallowed up where she sat. But it wasn’t about what she wanted, it never was. It was about getting her out of the public eye.

Two strong and armored arms picked up her lifeless body and walked her to the castle. Sansa was conscious, but she could barely see where she was heading. Everything was swimming around her, blinding her to the true reality of what was occurring. Perhaps it was her brain’s efforts to prevent her sanity from breaking entirely, irreversibly, but there was no point. She saw Bran. She _saw_ him, and she knew that he was most likely dead. No living person could have looked as pale and stiff as he.

She didn’t know who was carrying her, but from the hard, steel plates beneath her, she could infer that it was one of the King’s knights. From the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of gold and brilliant green, but she couldn’t be sure. She wasn’t sure of much of anything anymore.

Soon enough, Sansa gained enough awareness to realize that she was being taken to her rooms. The knight carrying her kicked open her large door and strode into her chambers. He unceremoniously dropped her onto her bed, where Sansa immediately curled into a fetal position. She could feel him staring at her, perhaps curiously, and were Sansa in her right mind, she would’ve scolded him for being so brazen. But she didn’t, and he looked at her for seconds more.

Sansa turned her head slightly, wanting to catch a glimpse of the rude knight, thinking that she would want to thank him when she was able, when she stopped in her tracks. Before her stood a tall man, an unbelievably handsome man, with curling golden hair, and beautiful leonine features. He could have been, at one point in her life, what she imagined to be the man of her dreams.

Ser Jaime watched her unflinchingly, even when she stared back at him, with an unreadable expression on his face. A certain softer emotion shone in his eyes for a brief second- _guilt?_ \- before they hardened once again. Jaime Lannister shook his head and then stormed out of her room, leaving a confused girl in his wake.

Sansa didn’t think about the strange encounter for much longer before she was swept into another bout of tears. From her window, she could hear men riding in, frantic shouts, and hard booted feet rushing up the stairs.

She found herself longing for her father, for his warm cheek kisses and gentle embraces. He was always such a strong, unmovable figure in her eyes. He was as steady as a mountain, as severe as the old gods, but always so tender when it came to his “pups”. Sansa reached out towards the door, beckoning him with her mind.

Almost as if magic, her door burst open and banged loudly against her stone wall, startling Sansa. Robb rushed in, sobbing, his arms outstretched, with Jon, Theon, and Arya running in behind him.

The sight of her beloved nearly drove Sansa to stomp past her brother and dive into Jon’s embrace, but she didn’t. Even half-crazed with grief, Sansa understood the implications of that. However, her older brother was a welcome sight, he always was, and Sansa accepted him into her arms.

He fell against her, almost as if boneless, and held her fiercely to his broad chest. Robb pushed his face into her scarlet tresses and sobbed soundlessly into them, ignoring how damp her hair became. Sansa allowed his frantic and nearly painful touch, knowing that, aside from their mother, she was the only one who could calm him.

Her cheek was squished against his chest, her own tears wetting his tunic, the one she made for him, and her arms were wrapped tightly around his middle. Being held so tightly, so lovingly, almost made her forget the reality of their situation, but every time she was close, her mother’s shriek would sound from the next room over.

Eventually Robb’s wailing quieted into silent tears, and he pulled her up from his chest. He cupped her porcelain cheeks within his warms palms and rubbed his thumbs gently over her never-ending stream of tears.

Sansa met his eyes and held his stare, her own hands reaching up to card her fingers through his auburn curls. They stayed within their own universe for a second, a universe that had only been their own for so long. They had been the eldest children. The golden siblings. Robb and Sansa had always been as close as twins in their childhood, and that bond had never lessened with time. It had only changed, adapted with their ages and separate worlds, but it had only grown stronger because of it. Sansa could not imagine a world without her dear Robb, and she knew it was the same for him.

“How are you feeling, my love?” He asked finally, his voice broken and stained. Sansa shook her head at the question, her tears starting anew in their fury, Bran’s twisted body once again returning to her mind. Oh gods would she ever forget!

When she started sobbing in front of her brother, louder this time, Robb began shushing her quietly, attempting to calm her. He planted gentle kisses to her face, her cheeks, her forehead, her lips, but Sansa remained unchanged, her fingers almost yanking his hair.

Robb delivered one final kiss to her mouth, before he looked up at the two other men in the room. Theon was pacing in one corner to the right of Robb, his fists clenched at his sides. Jon sat at the other end of the chamber, staring unendingly at the girl held in his brother’s arms, even as Arya was latched to his side.

Robb got up, removing himself gently from his favorite sister’s embrace, whispering sweet nothings to her as he left. Sansa reached up desperately, her frantic mind unable to comprehend his missing body heat. As he stood, he walked over to his brother and took Arya from him, pushing Jon out of the seat and then settling his little sister onto his lap. He ran his fingers through his Arya's hair, and watched as Jon rushed towards Sansa without hesitation, nearly crashing into her wailing body.

When Sansa once again felt another pair of warm arms wrap around her lithe form, she could feel her panic recede a bit. Almost immediately, she could tell that this embrace was different than Robb’s. The man holding her was more desperate, and he clung to her tightly, as if he needed her touch just as much as she needed his. It was Jon, oh it was Jon.

She buried her face into the crook of his shoulder and brought her body more securely to his. She wanted to become so close that she wouldn’t be able to tell where he started and she ended, where his hard angles and her soft curves would meld into one being. It was what they were meant to be, after all.

He brought his mouth to her ear and kissed around the soft area of her hair, taking pauses to sniff it as he went. Jon took care not to kiss her, not even as Robb did, for propriety’s sake. Even in his grief, he was as astute as ever.

“I love you,” Jon rasped into her ear, and Sansa frantically nodded along with him, pressing the side of her face against his bearded cheek. She wanted to whisper back the sentiment, but her tongue felt heavy and useless within her mouth. Instead, she resorted to pressing more kisses to the side of his face, the closest falling towards the corner of his lips.

“I won’t leave you. Not ever. I’ll stay with you for the rest of my life if you’ll let me,” Jon whispered softly. Sansa felt her face go slack, her breath hitching in her throat. He couldn’t have been suggesting what she thought he was suggesting, not when he turned her down so harshly just a day before.

She never had a chance to question him, because before she could ask, her father walked heavily into the room. He looked around silently at his children and ward, his red eyes widening briefly when he caught sight of his bastard and eldest daughter. Eventually, he tore his gaze away from them, and continued to stride further into the chamber.

Sansa removed herself from Jon’s embrace and moved slowly towards her father. He seemed burdened and grief-stricken, though she could see that he was trying to hide it for the sake of his family.

When she was close enough, she reached out towards her father and was swept up into his strong arms. Sansa began crying once again into his chest, and she could feel the crown of her head dampen with his own tears. “Oh, Papa!” She cried as she clutched him tighter. “Will he be okay?”

Ned Stark froze in his daughter’s embrace, his tears ceasing as he remembered his purpose in coming to her room. He stood straighter, but he didn’t push her away, his hand came up to stroke her hair.

“If Bran makes it through the night, he will live, but he will never walk again,” their father said gravely, his breath hitching slightly over the word “live”.

Sansa felt her arms slacken in shock, an overwhelming relief crashing over her heart. Bran was alive! Her baby brother was alive and he stood a chance of surviving his fall! She knew that him being a cripple would break his heart, for he aspired to become a knight, but he could live! That was all that mattered to her.

She pulled away from her father and saw her other siblings start to crowd around them. Joy shone radiantly from all of their faces as the news started to sink in. Their father nodded at them once, before he turned and walked out of the open door, Jon following at his heels.

Sansa was swept away into another embrace, this time it was Theon holding her, and she welcomed it whole-heartedly, crying from happiness into his velvet collar. Robb came in from behind and joined their excited hug, Arya rushing in between all of them just a moment later.

She couldn’t remember ever being so relived in her entire life, nor so upset, than she had been that day, but she found herself unable to dwell on that for too long. The only thing that was missing from this moment was Jon, who left the room before she could even question him on his startling statement.

 

* * *

 

 

Jon followed his father down the narrow, stone halls of their castle. He could tell that his father wished to be alone, or perhaps with his lady wife, in his grief, but the question sitting in Jon’s mind was too urgent to ignore. Today had opened his eyes to many things he had been unable to realize before. One of them being his inability to live without Sansa by his side.

When the hunting party had rushed in, they were bombarded with frantic servants who yelled over each other to explain some awful situation to his lord father. Ned had raised his hand to silence them and pointed at a maid to finish the tale.

After the words, “Lord Bran took a fall, my lord…” had fallen from her lips, Ned had jumped from his horse and ran swiftly towards the castle, his sons and ward sprinting in behind him.

When they were all inside, their father rushed towards Bran’s room and the three boys headed towards to the room next to it, Arya following them just a moment later.

Jon didn’t remember much of what happened after that, only that he craved to be by Sansa and that he nearly shoved Robb away to get to her, but he didn’t. Even then, he had enough sense to see the error in that. Instead, he had scooped Arya into his arms and kissed her forehead, all the while formulating a plan in his mind.

Now that he and his father were heading to the latter’s solar, he could make it come to fruition.

Ned walked into the room and sat heavily upon his chair, his fingers coming up to rub at his temples. Jon sat across from him on another plush seat and waited for his father to speak.

“Jon,” Ned began, sighing heavily. “What do you want, son?”

Jon took a breath, gathering his wits while he still had them. “Father, you are still planning on joining the king and going to Kings Landing, correct?” Jon asked, his voice steady, in no way betraying the anxiety he felt.

Ned looked up, his eyes hard, his normally stern face appearing severe. “How can you even ask me that right now? Just when your brother…” He trailed off, tears gathering in his eyes, before he blinked them away. “Why are you asking?” Ned asked again, all traces of his momentary parental grief hidden once again.

“What happened today made me realize the dangers of the world, of life and its endless cruelties. A person can get hurt even in their own home, even when they don’t expect it. When the girls go to Kings Landing, they will be in a land that is unfamiliar to them, and they will need someone to protect them without fail. I can be that protection. Who better to watch over them than their own brother?” Jon questioned, his words coming so fast that they started blurring together. He had to go to Kings Landing. He _needed_ to.

“Jon-“

“Please, Father!”

Ned looked up swiftly at the interruption, his stone colored eyes suddenly turning sharp, inquisitive. Jon was careful not to start squirming in his seat.

“Jon, I thought you wanted to go to the Wall?” Ned asked, his voice turning soft. Jon took a breath, and with it, felt all his aspirations of becoming a valiant black knight and making something of himself turn to dust. If he did this, then there would be turning back, no second glances towards a future he always craved. But then again, in his wildest dreams, he had never foreseen his life becoming _this._

“I did,” Jon admitted with a heavy sight. “But things have changed. _I_ have changed. I found things more important than myself,” Jon continued, his tone strong and sure. In his mind, he pictured Sansa in the glass gardens, her scarlet hair mussed from his fingers and her mouth swollen and sweet against his own. He loved her. He’d give up the world if only to see a second of her smile.

Ned stared at him for a moment longer, before he leaned back in his chair, a proud smile briefly gracing his stoic features. He stood up, and Jon felt his heart jump almost painfully in his chest, anticipation and anxiety battling for dominance within him.

“If this is truly what you want, son, then I will allow you to take this path. I’m happy that you have decided to come with us. It will do my heart well to know that Sansa and Arya will have you looking after them.”

Jon nearly fainted from relief and shock, and he jumped up to enthusiastically shake his father’s hand in thanks. He did it! He actually did it!

“Now that you’re here, is there anything else you want?” Ned asked, a small amount of amusement hidden in his tone.

Jon nodded at his father’s inquiry and stood straight once more.

“Father, if it pleases you, then I would wish to add to my previous request,” Jon paused, looking and waiting for his father’s acknowledgment, and then continuing when he saw him nod.

“I wish to become Sansa’s sworn sword.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa sat in bed later that evening, running her fingers through Lady’s soft coat. She had brushed it earlier, but she had to admit that she loved the silken feel of Lady’s fur beneath her palm, and the warmth that flooded her chest every time the precious creature made a sound of contentment.

She had donned on one of her white, satin nightgowns and had pulled her hair back with a pink colored ribbon. Anxiety still swam in her chest at the thought of Bran, but at least the nausea was gone. Perhaps it was naïve of her, but she had a good feeling about his health. Bran was always a fighter, and more stubborn than the most hard-headed mule. If he wished to live, then Bran would live. For Sansa, it was as simple as that.

A knock on the door broke through her haze, and before Sansa could ask who it was, the door opened to reveal Jon.

Immediately her heart started to race at the sight of him, and she got up to rush over to where he stood.

Jon, sensing what she was about to do, softly shut the door behind him, and gathered her into his arms, bringing her soft lips to his own.

The two lovers both melted into the kiss and grasped at each other, their arms desperate, even while their mouths stayed languid in their relaxed meeting.

However, just when Sansa started to deepen the kiss, Jon pulled away from her. Sansa frowned and attempted to reach back over to him, but Jon ducked away once again. She found herself annoyed and confused at his avoidance of her.

“Jon, what are you-“

“Sansa, I have to tell you something.”

Sansa stared up at him curiously, and then nodded when she was ready for him to continue. From the anxious look on his face, she could tell that it was very important.

“Sweetling, I went to Father today and I asked him to become your sworn sword. He said yes,” Jon said slowly, his hands forming gentle circles on the exposed skin of her shoulders.

Sansa looked up at him in shock, her mouth going slack. “But… I thought that you-“, “I did,” Jon interrupted. “But then I changed my mind.”

Sansa attempted to speak, to convey her happiness, her confusion, her _anything,_ but she couldn’t. Her tongue was as stiff as a stone in her mouth. 

Jon, it seemed, misunderstood her silence, mistaking it for reticence. 

"Are you displeased, sweetling? I know that I did this without your consent but I was sure that you'd be-"

Sansa sighed, gaining back her bearings. She was still so shocked, and so scared, and so happy, and so a million other things that she couldn’t fully comprehend it. The only thing she could truly make sense of, was the love she bore for this selfless man in front of her.

“Yes, Jon,” Sansa said breathlessly, clutching him to her tighter than before. “Yes, I will let you come with me! A million times yes!” She cried and then crashed her lips to his once again.

Jon moaned into her kiss, and pulled her flush against his chest possessively, running one of his hands through the silken softness of her hair. He swiped his tongue lazily against the bottom swell of her lip, and then grinned into their kiss when she whimpered at his entrance.

Sansa felt so happy that she could burst. She loved Jon. She love, love, loved him, and for once in her life, she felt as if things were finally heading in the right direction. She knew she was being horribly optimistic, and she knew that come morning, they’d have to take their respective roles once more. He, being Jon Snow, The Bastard of Winterfell, while she would be Lady Sansa Stark, betrothed to the prince of the Seven Kingdoms.

But in this moment, they were simply Jon and Sansa, and that was all that was needed. And for a second, for that blissful second, she could pretend that that was all they needed to be.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys like that its not as angsty as you're used to getting from me but I felt like finishing on a more happy note.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! And with a longer chapter! Pretty soon, I'm going to be uploading a new fanfic that's centered in the Star Wars universe, so if you're interested in that, check it out. Also I directly took a quote from the books that's a frequent motif for a certain character. See if you can catch it! Enjoy!

The snow fell gently around them, giving an almost ethereal and surreal quality to their surroundings. It was summer, it shouldn’t have been snowing, but perhaps the Old Gods were aware that this was a special occasion. Perhaps the Old Gods knew that the essence of the North, of Winterfell, was necessary in a ceremony such as this.

Jon was placed in front of Sansa, kneeling at her altar, while the rest of the Stark family, excluding Lady Catelyn and Bran, stood around them. Sansa felt the distinct need to withhold tears, although the rational part of herself knew that there was no need for emotion, only strength. It was what this moment meant to her though.

Throughout her entire life, despite the fact that she was the firstborn lady of a great House, Sansa held no true power. She was, in the technical sense, under the thumb of her father, of Robb, of any of her male family members, really. In this moment, however, when Jon was kneeled in supplication before her, she felt a whisper of true authority, of having a choice. It was more than she ever could’ve truly wished for.

She stood in front of the Heart Tree, the leaves occasionally falling towards the ground and into the scarlet tresses of her hair, and she couldn’t have dreamed of a more perfect setting. They were surrounded by the very essence of the First Men. If she concentrated, she could almost feel the ice move through her veins, the song of the North beat in her heart. She had never felt more at home.

Finally, her beloved spoke. “I offer my services to Lady Sansa Stark. I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.”

Sansa choked back a relived sob. Jon’s voice was strong and sure, without an ounce of hesitation when he spoke his vows. He did it. He really did it! And it was all for her.

Sansa cleared her throat and focused her eyes on the sword he raised before her. “And I vow that you shall always have a place at my hearth, and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New. Arise.” And with her acknowledgment, he did.

Jon rose to his feet slowly, his head bowed before her in a gesture of submission. It reminded her too much of how he stood before her mother, as if expecting punishment or scorn. Sansa couldn’t bear to see him carry himself so formally in front of her. Besides, this was a happy occasion. Jon would be with her forever, from now on until the end of their lives, perhaps even longer than that if the gods were kind.

When his eyes met hers, Sansa couldn’t hold back anymore. She threw herself into his arms, burying her face into the warmth of his neck, clutching him to her body tightly. She almost moaned in relief, in an unquantifiable satisfaction. Nothing felt more right than being within the circle of his embrace.

After feeling him hesitate after several seconds, as if unaccustomed to her affection, Jon brought his hands up and cradled her in his arms. They could both feel the confused weight of their family’s eyes on them, but Sansa couldn’t find the energy to care much. Sansa hoped that they would attribute their strange reaction to the ceremony and nothing else. After all, what else could be between them if not the cautious tenderness between two half-siblings?

Eventually, Sansa pulled away from Jon, albeit reluctantly, and whirled into her father’s arms, hiding her face in his strong chest.

She felt so safe in the cover of his hold, and she almost didn’t want to let go. Her parents often made her feel more secure than anything in the entire world. In this regard, she couldn’t help but think herself as completely childish, she was turning five and ten name days in a scant couple of months, after all.  However, Sansa didn’t care. She loved her father, and she was unashamed of showing it.

She looked up at his gentle face and soft eyes. He only ever looked that way at herself, her mother, and Arya, and her heart blossomed with warmth at his familiar tenderness. “Thank you, Father, for allowing Jon to do this. You have no idea how safe I will feel in the South with him watching over Arya and I.”

Her father smiled gently and ran a large callused hand down the crimson silk of her hair. “It was not my decision, love,” he said softly. “Your brother came to me with the idea himself.”

Sansa resisted the urge to glance back at Jon, knowing that her affection for him would be plain in her eyes if she did. Instead, she simply nodded against his chest and smiled brightly at him.

Suddenly, Sansa was spun into another pair of strong arms, and she nearly rolled her eyes in a false exasperation at who she knew was holding her. She feigned pushing back at him, but after a few seconds, she resigned herself to being held by her dearest sibling.

Robb turned her in his arms and held her tightly against him. He rested his bearded chin on the top of her head, and Sansa nestled her face into the warmth of his body, breathing in his scent. The sudden realization that she was leaving him tomorrow, for years perhaps, caused tears to spring to her eyes. Robb was her brother, her _favorite_ brother, and she couldn’t bear the thought of being so far from him, so removed from his tender devotion.

Robb felt her sorrow and tightened his arms around her until they felt like iron bands across her form, but Sansa ignored the discomfort. In a way, she almost welcomed it. She wanted to be so wrapped up in him that she could feel the harsh affection of his embrace down to her bones, to her heart. She never wanted to forget what his arms felt like when folded around her.

Distantly, she could hear the rest of her family walk away, and she almost called out for Jon to stay so that he may hold her again, to take away the pain that she knew was fast approaching. But she stayed her tongue. She already hugged him earlier, doing it again, and so desperately as to betray their feelings, which they would undoubtedly do, was irrational.

Sansa sighed softly. She found that she was growing tired of rationality, of expectation. A large part of her just wanted to damn it all to the seven hells and burn beside her beloved, but she couldn’t do that. She would never hurt Jon that way.

Robb pulled back from her and ran a large hand through her hair, pushing a lock gently behind her ear. Sansa flashed a dazzling smile at him in hopes that he wouldn’t sense her obvious melancholy. Of course though, the attempt was foolish. At times, Sansa was almost positive that her brother knew her thoughts and emotions more intimately than he did his own. Hiding her feelings from his observant gaze was a nearly fruitless endeavor, not when he could see her so clearly.

He stepped back from her slightly, expanding the scant distance between them.

“Come to my room later, Sansa. We have to talk about something before you leave.”

Sansa’s heart stilled in her chest, ice water suddenly shooting through her veins. A million scenarios ran through her mind, almost all of them ending with her shame, almost all of them involving the love she bore for Jon.

She nearly gasped. Oh gods! Robb would kill Jon is he ever found out what they shared. He would castrate him and leave his head on a pike atop the gates of Winterfell. And the gods know what they would do to her. For a wretched moment, she could almost hear the whispers, _whore, deviant, sick, a temptress,_ and tears clouded her vision.

However, despite her frantic and panicked thoughts, Sansa did her best to maintain her cheery façade, and so she merely nodded to her brother and delivered a sweet, perfunctory kiss upon his lips.

Robb’s face stretched into a grin, and Sansa could’ve wept with relief. “I’ll see you soon, my love. Remember to visit Mother today, okay?” Robb said gently, affectionately tapping Sansa’s chin with an outstretched finger.

Sansa nodded at him. She planned to visit her mother today anyway, and she would’ve done so without Robb’s reminder. Bran was still asleep, but Maester Luwin had said that his survival was basically guaranteed at this point, and so, Sansa made it a point to see him every day.

Sansa turned then, blowing her brother one last kiss. “I will, Robb. Make sure to see them today too. I know how you forget things,” Sansa joked, placing her hands on her hips, as if irritated at his absentmindedness. Robb smiled widely at her jest and raised both of his thumbs, nodding fervently at her.

Sansa giggled at his antics and skipped away, heading off in the direction of Bran’s room.

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa opened the door slightly and walked slowly into the room, as if afraid to make a sound. In a way she was. Her mother, understandably, had been at Bran’s bedside since he was first laid there, and from where she stood, Sansa could see her mother’s focus fixated on a wreath she was weaving in her hands. Sansa had seen a wreath like that before when she was a child, hidden in the depths of one of Jon’s drawers. It made her heart _bleed_ to see it. Even though he would never admit it, perhaps not even to her, Sansa knew that Jon had an almost primal craving for maternal affection. He was starved for it, and Sansa was aware that he went to nearly any older woman to find it, to find any hints of the cold Lady Catelyn in their eyes and see someone who could love him. For a moment, for a wild second, Sansa found herself resenting her mother for her callousness.

Quickly though, she pushed it aside and walked towards her mother, calling out a soft greeting so as not to startle her.

Catelyn glanced up at her, smiled half-heartedly, and then immediately returned to her wreath. Sansa didn’t feel any sadness at her mother’s lack of acknowledgment. With half of her family leaving tomorrow, the task of caring for a crippled son, and her son taking over his role of Lord of Winterfell nearing, Sansa knew that her mother had much to stress over. Instead, Sansa merely smiled lovingly back and sat at the other side of Bran’s bed.

His color had returned, which Sansa was unbelievably happy about. She remembered how he looked when she first saw him after his fall, and her subsequent tears and sickness after.

Sansa ran a hand through his dark auburn hair, yearning to see his Tully blue eyes lock on hers. He was such an active boy, so happy and excitable. To see him confined to a bed, knowing that he could never move as he once did again, made her feel as if a lance pierced her already aching heart.

She closed her eyes tightly, willing away her tears. She cried more in these past couple of months than she had in her entire life. In her mother’s presence, when she was already so damnably fragile, Sansa wouldn’t do it again.

Instead, Sansa started to hum a simple tune. It was the melody of a love song, a favorite of hers, and Bran’s too, although he would scarcely admit it.

Suddenly though, Sansa opened her mouth and continued to sing the same song, a small part of her hoping that her little brother would wake up and start singing with her.

He did not, of course, but Sansa continued to sing, letting her sweet and sorrowful voice fill the dreary spaces of the room. In her mind, she silently prayed that she would also be able to calm her mother. Catelyn had always been very fond of her daughter’s talent for singing, after all. She claimed that it was the mark of a true lady.

When the song was over, Sansa looked up to see her mother staring at her, eyes wide as if in gratitude. She beamed at her mother and crossed over to her side of the room, delivering a long kiss to her mother’s forehead.

“I love you so much,” Sansa whispered softly, cradling her mother’s weary face. “I will miss you so much.”

Catelyn let out a choked sob and brought her arms around her daughter. Sansa sighed as she allowed herself to be held by her mother. She wondered if she would ever tire of her parents’ affection, or if she would continue to seek as she did now.

“This won’t be forever, Mother. Soon you will be at my wedding,” Sansa tried not to choke on her words, false comforts were coming easier to her now. “Bran will be beside you and Father will walk me down to the prince, and on that day I shall become a princess. Who knows? Perhaps Robb will have married before me and I’ll see you all on his wedding.”

Catelyn squeezed her harder, acknowledging her words, before releasing her slowly. Sansa loathed to leave her mother’s arms, but she pushed herself to let go.

Sansa waved goodbye to her mother one last time and walked out of the room and into her own next door. When she glanced back, Catelyn was already back to weaving the wreath.

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa entered Robb’s room slowly, quietly, a strange kind of thrill fluttering in her chest. She hadn’t sneaked into his room ever since she was a child, and that was only when she had terrible nightmares and her parents’ room had been locked.

A part of herself was screaming to turn back to her room and hide under the safety of her furs. What she was doing now could be considered wildly inappropriate, and she cringed whenever she imagined what Septa Mordane’s reaction would be if she ever found out. However, Robb was her brother, her _best_ brother, and if anyone took issue with what he asked her to do, then they could take it up with him. Sansa smiled wickedly. Yes, whoever became upset at her would merely have to speak with her brother first.

She stepped towards his bed, and for a moment, she wondered if he was still awake. However, when Robb sat up suddenly and pushed aside his furs to make room for her, she knew that he had simply been waiting for her.

Sansa scampered into his bed and nestled contentedly into his furs, already warm from his body heat. Robb brought his arms out in invitation and Sansa crawled into his embrace, both of them silent as they enjoyed each other’s company.

Sansa felt very much like a child, memories upon memories of when they lied together in this position racing through her mind. Bittersweet tears stung her eyes as she recalled them. Years ago, in this very bed, Robb had told her stories about heroes and knights and valiant princes. She almost wished that life could be that innocent again, where all she craved was lemoncakes and pretty dresses and her own happiness. But alas, it wasn’t. Life would never be that simple again.

After a moment, she spoke up, her tone hesitant. “Why did you ask me here, Robb?”

Robb sighed slowly, and ran his free hand through his auburn curls. Sansa had always loved his hair.

“Aside from me wishing to spend more time with you before you left tomorrow?” He asked. Sansa nodded against his shoulder, her heart racing with dread.

“Sansa, my love, you know that you can tell me everything right? You know that I love you above all else, don’t you?” Sansa nodded again, slower this time. Her throat felt clogged with fear, but she attempted to speak. “Yes.”

Robb was the one to nod this time. “You’ve been hiding something from me,” he stated blandly.

Sansa glanced up at him in panic, warm grey eyes appearing in her mind’s eye. The statement, for it had undoubtedly been one, stole the breath from her chest. She glanced over at her brother again and saw that he had set his face resolutely onto hers. Around her lithe form, she could feel his arm strengthen into something like granite. She knew their bond, and she knew that in a moment like this, where she was so vulnerable and he was so determined, that there would be no lying to him. She could play her petty games with the queen, smile prettily for the wretched prince, and even act the enchanted daughter with her father, but with her brother, her façade merely fell away. He knew her like the back of his hand, and she knew the cracks and his corners of his mind the same way she could map out the halls of Winterfell.

And so with a steely reserve and a guarded heart, Sansa continued to stare up at him, at the blue eyes that reminded her so acutely of her own. “What do you mean, Robb?”

Robb’s jaw bone clenched, a muscle spasming due to strength of his growing frustration. This confused Sansa and set her even more on edge. What could incur his ire like this?

“I see the way you look at the prince. You hate him. Why?”

Sansa’s eyes widened and she sucked in a breath. Relief and dread flooded and swirled in her heart like a raging storm. “I… I don’t know what you mean.”

Robb’s eyes turned sharp, unrelenting onto her own. “You know what I damn well mean. I’m not an idiot, Sansa. I see the way you look at him. It’s as if you can barely stand to be around him without getting sick. I thought you wanted this?”

Sansa sighed harshly, suddenly growing frustrated herself. “What do you expect, Robb? I’m going to be separated from my mother, from Rickon and Bran. From _you_! How would act if you were in my position? What girl in her right mind would ever look forward to leaving half of her family behind?” Sansa’s voice raised in pitch and volume as she continued to speak. She wasn’t giving away her true reasons for disliking Joffrey, of course, but Sansa had found that the best lies were always concealed under the guise of half-truths. In a way, her frustration with leaving was plain and honest, although it wasn’t entirely.

Robb’s gaze turned sympathetic and his arms tightened around her, as if to offer comfort, but his features remained stony. In that moment, he looked very much like their father.

“What does that have to do with the prince though?”

“Robb! Just as you’re not an idiot, neither am I. You all may think that I am fanciful and naïve, and in many ways, I still am. However, I’m not blind. Joffrey is a pompous ass, his mother is a royal bitch, and his father is a perverted drunkard. Look at the family Father has sold me into. Would you be happy if you were in my position?”

Robb’s jaw slackened in shock, his eyes wide with some unreadable emotion. He looked troubled then, as if he was seeing a part of her that he had not noticed before. Sansa nearly rolled her eyes. She knew that her brother always viewed her as a simpering little girl who adored her big brother to the point of idolization, and a part of her still did, but she had grown from that. She had been forced to grow from that. She was almost five and ten name days! She was a woman grown!

Robb sat up, and Sansa followed his lead. She felt strangely contrite then, although she knew that she had no reason to be. She had never liked yelling at Robb, and she still didn’t. Perhaps that was the reason for her irrational guilt.

She pulled her arm up and wrapped it around his shoulder, softly rubbing the exposed skin there. Robb squeezed her slightly and met her eyes, his gaze soft and serious simultaneously.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, my love. If I could, I would marry you into a good Northern family so that you may stay close to us. In fact, if I had any choice at all, I would wish this entire royal visit away. It’s caused nothing but trouble.”

Sansa nodded against his shoulder and dropped a small kiss to his cheek. She agreed with most of what he said, but she couldn’t honestly say that she would willingly wish away everything. Just yesterday, Jon had stayed in her room for a blissful hour where all they did was sit and kiss and hold each other. She had never felt more content than she did in that moment. Never, could she will something like that away. But of course, she could never tell Robb that.

“You know just as well as I that we could never do that. That would be political suicide. King Robert might not care, but the vipers in Kings Landing would eat us alive. They would destroy our House for our presumption,” Sansa explained passionately but clearly, running her fingers over the furrowed lines of her brother’s brow.

Robb nodded slowly, as if in thought, before he threw up his hands in irritation. “So that’s it then? I’m supposed to leave you to your unhappiness?”

Sansa looked away from him for a moment, her compassion pulling her to comfort him, to deny his words, if only to offer him some relief. But she couldn’t, they both knew her words would be false platitudes. Things to be held in vain.

Sansa only turned back and met his sad eyes. She almost wanted to cry at how plaintively he looked at her. She took a breath. “Yes,” she said softly, “yes, you have to. Most women have gone through what I will. It’s a fact of life.”

Robb’s jaw clenched, and for a moment he appeared as if he wanted to argue his point further, but a look of painful resignation fell over his features. It hurt Sansa to see it. In many ways, despite her brother being three years older than herself, he was still an innocent in areas where Sansa was all too grown up.

She lied back down, nestling herself back into the comfortable bedding. “Come lie down again, Robb. I don’t want to discuss this any longer.”

Robb glanced down at her and inclined his head in a slight nod. He still appeared upset, but she didn’t expect any different. However, it made her heart ache to know that her last hours with him would be so submerged in the unescapable feeling of their shared melancholy.

Robb fell down beside her and wrapped his arms around her again. His hold was tighter than before and Sansa felt warm in the aura of his loving devotion. She would miss him so much. Gods she would miss him so much!

“Good night, brother,” Sansa whispered in the darkness. She was five years old again.

“Good night, my love,” Robb whispered back, and in the light of the moon, he looked so much younger too.

She held him tighter.

 

* * *

 

 

The sounds of horses neighing and servants bustling across the courtyard sounded awfully loud in Sansa’s ears. She was leaving today, and the chances of her coming back in the next coming years were almost slim to none. Her heart bled at the thought so she shoved her sad musings away.

Jon stood across from her, nearby but never near enough, and she wanted to fall into his embrace. She snuck glances at him frequently, and through the corner of her eye, she could see him do the same. She couldn’t wait until they were in the privacy of their quarters. She would kiss him then and she would never stop. Not until the breath was robbed from her lungs and the rhythm of her heart would cease.

Arya approached her, and Sansa could see faint tear tracks mark her face. She had probably just said goodbye to Bran and their mother. Sansa had cried too when she said her final farewell earlier. She pulled her in for a hug.

Arya remained still in her arms for a second before she brought up her arms and wrapped them around her. “I’m going to miss everyone so much,” she whispered tearfully.

Sansa squeezed her harder. “I know. I’m going to miss them too.”

The two stayed in their shared embrace for moments more before the sound of someone clearing their throat broke them apart.

Sansa looked up to see her brother and Theon, and tears clouded her vision.

Robb smiled wanly, his own eyes red, and dropped down to his knees before their little sister. Sansa left them to their goodbyes. She peeked behind Robb’s crouched form and took in the sight of her father’s ward. He had always been such a pain, perverted and rude, with a horrible penchant for teasing her, but she would miss him all the same. In a strange way, Theon was her first suitor.

She waved him over and he approached her slowly, almost shyly. Sansa smiled brightly at him, hoping to ease his worries.

Theon finally brought her in for a hug, and Sansa relished in his warmth. It was so funny how things could be brought into perspective when facing separation. A boy she could hardly stand had become a treasured memory of her idyllic childhood.

He leaned away from her, but kept his hands at her waist. “I’ll miss you, Sans. The next time I see you, you’ll be a princess. One day, even a queen.”

Sansa chuckled quietly and stared into his eyes. They looked so pretty in the morning light. She had never taken the time to notice before.

“And you’ll be lording over Pyke when I see you next. A salt king,” she remarked playfully, and Theon winked suddenly and said, “I’ll make sure not to invade the Seven Kingdoms when you’re Queen.”

Sansa laughed, her eyes sparkling with mirth. “And before then?” She asked, holding in a giggle. Theon made a face, as if thinking it over, and Sansa barely concealed an amused snort. “I’ll think about it,” he answered, and Sansa left it at that.

When she looked behind him, she saw Robb waiting for her to notice him. She stepped around Theon and rushed into her brother’s arms, already crying.

Robb held her tightly against his strong chest, his heart beating against her own. “I love you so much, sweetheart. Please write me. I couldn’t bear it if you didn’t.”

Sansa nodded fervently, nuzzling her cheek against his velvet tunic. Gods she would miss him.

“I’ll write you every day, and I’ll make sure Arya and Jon do too,” she said softly. She felt Robb nod against her temple.

He pulled away slightly, their arms still wrapped around each other. “I told Jon that if anything happens to you, I’ll cut his cock off and feed it to Grey Wind.”

Sansa’s eyes widened comically. It unnerved her how resolute he sounded when he said that, as if he was actually serious. She tilted her head, staring at his stone eyes. Perhaps he was.

“Jon won’t let anything happen to me. I trust him to protect me,” Sansa said, her voice sure. She noticed Robb’s confused expression and she quickly continued. “Arya too, of course.”

Robb nodded slowly, his lips pursed slightly, his gaze falling over to Jon, who had been watching their encounter.

Jon saw him look over and hurriedly returned to readying his horse. If they were not in so much risk, Sansa might have found his panicked face amusing. However, since they were, she just felt annoyed.

Sansa brought her eyes back to her brother and gave him one last quick squeeze. The king was already starting to move out.

Robb pulled her back to him and dropped a kiss to her forehead. It was surprisingly harsh, but Sansa chalked it up to his sorrow, which she felt just as acutely.

Almost as quickly as it started, Robb let her go and whispered a goodbye against the skin of her temple. Sansa rasped a farewell back and reluctantly let him go. There was snow dusting his auburn curls, but Sansa felt no desire to brush them away as she usually did. She wanted her last memory of her childhood in Winterfell to be as Northern as it possibly could be.

Instead, she simply turned from him and climbed into the carriage next to Arya. Her sister buried her face into Sansa’s shoulder, and she allowed the touch. She needed it almost as much as Arya did.

She yearned for Jon’s presence beside her, but she knew she couldn’t request it without drawing suspicion, so she stayed her tongue and settled for imagining the way his eyes looked after he kissed her.

The carriage moved forward, and Sansa felt an almost desperate need to look back at Winterfell, but she couldn’t. Her heart would shatter if she did.

 _If I look back, I am lost,_ she thought, and she would be. She would be. She had to let the past die, let her childhood of snow and smiles go. If she didn’t then the memories of her mother’s tender touch and Robb’s exuberant laugh would haunt her and wound her already battered heart. _If I look back, I am lost,_ she thought desperately, but then she did. She peered behind her and saw the snowy land, the rigid landscapes, and she treasured the bittersweet memory in her heart, where it would remain untouched.

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning! There is some unwanted sexual advances and harassment in this update so read at your own risk!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I'm so sorry for the late, late, late update but I was struck with an incurable case of writer's block and I had to force myself to reevaluate this fic's story line and how I wanted everyone to end up. I do plan on doing some light revisions for some earlier chapters too, so watch out for that. The good thing is that I think I figured it out and hopefully it'll all be smooth sailing from here on out. Also, I'm considering a rating change. Tell me how you all feel about that ;) Anyway, I hope you all enjoy!

The south disagreed with Jon Snow.

Under the heat of the midafternoon sun, Jon could feel thick rivulets of sweat pouring down his back, plastering his linen tunic to his frame. It was a good thing then that he heeded his father’s advice and left his woolen clothes back at Winterfell. He was certain that if they were with him now, he would’ve ripped them all to pieces and threw them in the Trident, never to be sweated in again.

It was in moments like these that he wondered why he ever decided to go South, but then, as if the gods sought to remind him, he would see flashes of sweeping skirts or brilliant auburn hair shining under the sun. Jon heard whispers from among the men that Queen Cersei was considered the most beautiful woman in all the Seven Kingdoms, and he always had to stifle a laugh. It was a wonder that anyone could believe that when Sansa stood amongst them, bathing the world with her radiance.

Jon snorted then at his train of thought. Perhaps it was fortunate that they focused their attentions on the queen. His sword arm was due to fall off if he found the excuse to fight every southern knight that fixed their leering gaze on her.

Jon sighed and turned his attention back to his sword, sharpening it slowly.

Today had been a rather quiet day, and mostly uneventful. Most of the time, Jon found himself surrounded by most of the king’s knights, standing with them as they sparred and jested with each other. Although they did all seem intolerably pompous in the beginning, Jon supposed that they weren’t all bad. Not when they had a few drinks in them or when they gave him pointers to improve his swordsmanship. One knight in particular had caused him to silently glow with pride when he remarked offhandedly that Jon would become a fine swordsman in a few years time once he had a few battles under his belt.

Jon stood up from the stump he sat on and rolled his shoulders slowly, releasing some of his built up tension. He stretched his neck, wincing. He had been bent over his sword for far too long to be comfortable.

Once he finished his stretches, Jon swung his sword from side to side, watching the arcs it made in the air. He spun around, as if evading an invisible foe, and lashed forward, stabbing the air in front of him.

He then practiced his footwork. Moving upwards and backwards, side to side, testing the quickness of his feet. When watching him once, Sansa had remarked that for all that he was light on his feet as a fighter, he was absolutely helpless when dancing. Jon at least took comfort in the fact that she appreciated his footwork when it truly mattered.

His concentration was broken when he heard footsteps saunter up soundlessly behind him. They would’ve been almost completely unnoticed had it not been for his trained ear, his sensitivity to his surroundings heightened from constant practice and Robb’s propensity for sneaking up on him.

Jon, anticipating a surprise attack from one of the knights, spun around, his sword clanging loudly with another. He would’ve been impressed with the speed of the other fighter had he not found himself making eye contact with the man holding the sword, glittering green eyes meeting his startled grey ones.

Jaime Lannister. Of course it was Jaime Lannister. Jon had never met the man in any real capacity, but he did see him stalking around camp, as slick and swaggering as his family’s sigil. Jon never considered himself to be too judgmental of a person, but after taking one look at the Kingslayer, he decided that he was another pompous, arrogant, silver-tongued twit with his head far up his own ass.

Why he was here now though, Jon could not imagine.

The Kingslayer’s smarmy smile widened. He shook his head and tsked. “Don’t stop now, bastard, you were doing so well,” he remarked, before lunging forward.

Jon scrambled back, his shock almost causing his sword to fall out of his grip. He didn’t expect to be _sparring_ with the Kingslayer. For all that everyone sang Jaime Lannister’s praises on his fighting prowess, he had never actually seen him fight. Jon thought that it had something to do with his arrogance. He probably thought that he didn’t even need to practice.

Jon shook his head to regain his bearings. He set his feet into a fighting position and righted his sword hand, preparing for the next attack.

The Kingslayer grinned at him as they begun to circle around each other.

“There’s a good lad,” he drawled, twirling his sword. “Waiting for the attack instead of rushing forward and tiring yourself out.” He cocked his head then, a curious look overcoming his features. “Were you actually taught to fight, bastard? It truly is marvelous how your father has looked after you so. You must consider yourself _so_ fortunate as to have gained his favor.”

Jon felt his face harden, his eyes narrowing. He gritted his teeth and stilled his hand, despite every nerve in his body urging him to slash open his opponent’s golden face. But that’s what he wanted. The Kingslayer wanted him to lose his control.

“What?” he asked, his voice put out. “You don’t like it when I say that?” He smiled. “You poor bastard, so helpless and alone. Never to be recognized as anything more than what you are. A _bastard!”_

Jon let out a scream of rage, lunging forward. Their swords met with a clang as the Kingslayer quickly moved his sharp blade towards Jon’s attack. He was smirking again, but his eyes shone with an excited light, almost as if he was having fun. Jon would gape at it if he wasn’t so busy trying to keep his scowl.

The Kingslayer moved his arm and slashed forward, letting out a boisterous laugh as Jon parried his stab. “You’re strong,” he said, barely panting. “That’s good.”

Jon wondered why he was giving him commentary. It hardly seemed necessary in his opinion.

“Well,” Jon said, dodging another blow, barely avoiding his forehead getting slashed open. “We are fighting with real swords.”

“Aye,” Lannister answered, twirling around, calm as you please. “It’s rather exciting isn’t it?”

Jon wheezed out a tired laugh. He began to feel his exhaustion catching up to him, the heat and the exertion making his limbs feel heavy. It was clear to him that the fight would be ending soon. “Exciting? In truth, I find it rather terrifying,” he quipped.

The Kingslayer laughed, the sound of it surprisingly pleasant and free of any sarcasm. “I should hope so. Any swordsman worth his salt should be afraid in any fight. Losing a limb is an irreversible set back,” he said, feinting towards Jon’s right.

Jon, now weary from the fight, fell for his trick and moved his sword to protect his right, leaving his left side open. The Kingslayer took advantage of this oversight and swiftly rushed towards Jon’s left, kicking his leg out and catching him in the side.

Jon fell over from the force of the attack and quickly rolled onto the ground, belatedly moving his blade up to protect his neck as the Kingslayer kneeled forward, bringing his own sword down.

Both of the swords clanged against each other over Jon’s throat, causing him to flinch at the sound. He closed his eyes, half expecting his head to be chopped off. When, after a few seconds, nothing happened, he opened his eyes and met the amused stare of the Kingslayer, who was already sheathing his sword. “Never give up too early in a fight,” he said, turning around. “For all you know, my confidence in my victory could’ve made me shortsighted and you would’ve been able to take _me_ down.” And then, as if the very notion was ridiculous, he burst out laughing.

Jon stared up at him in open mouthed confusion, wondering why in the seven hells he was still here, and wondering why he was so amused, of all things. Before this, Jon didn’t even think that he had ever seen him genuinely smile.

The Kingslayer must have seen his dumbfounded expression, because he rolled his eyes and kicked at Jon’s foot.

“Get up, bastard,” he ordered. “Don’t you have to look after that pretty half-sister of yours?”

Jon involuntarily narrowed his eyes at him, unappreciative of his less than respectful allusion to Sansa.

He rolled forward onto his knees and stood up slowly, his muscles starting to strain from his fight with the Kingslayer. He pressed his lips tightly together in a small wince, reminding himself never to practice with the likes of Jaime Lannister ever again.

He bent down to retrieve his sword and sheathed it, his back burning under the heat of the sun and the focus of the Kingslayer’s gaze. Finally fed up with his presence, Jon spun around and snapped, “What is it? Are you here to ridicule me on how quickly you defeated me?”

The Kingslayer raised his eyebrows at the emergence of Jon’s temper and smirked, leaning against the tree next to him. “Quick? You thought that was quick?” he asked.

Jon bit the inside of his cheek and flexed his sword hand absentmindedly, the back of his neck burning. “Wasn’t it?”

Lannister brought a hand up to his chin and appraised him, his brows furrowed in concentration. He stood straight, moving himself from the tree and walked towards Jon.

Jon could feel himself begin to fidget beneath the Kingslayer’s probing gaze, but he forced himself to stand upright, to avoid drawing into himself as he was wont to do whenever he felt the urge to disappear from someone’s scrutiny. Somehow, he knew that he was being tested for something.

The Kingslayer circled him slowly, his hand still rubbing at his chin. Jon was beginning to relax his stance, when he felt Lannister reach out, harshly batting him back into place.

Jon flinched backwards, his temper rising. When he prodded him again, Jon reached out, mindlessly smacking his hand away. For a moment, he feared the Kingslayer would take offense to this and order for him to be flogged for striking a lord, but it seemed as if he didn’t even notice. He simply stopped in front of him, crossing his arms over his armored chest.

“How long have you been fighting?” he asked suddenly.

Jon was taken aback by this, surprised that he was even being talked to by a lord of his standing outside of a sparring session.

The Kingslayer rolled his eyes at Jon’s wide eyed silence. “I _said,_ how long have you been fighting?” he repeated, clearly annoyed.

Jon bristled at his condescending tone and folded his arms tightly across his chest, attempting to broaden his frame. “Ever since I was a boy. Why?”

The Kingslayer ignored his question. “You’ve never squired for someone?”

Jon furrowed his brows and shook his head. “Of course not,” he replied. “Followers of the Old Gods don’t become knights.”

The Kingslayer pursed his lips, his eyebrows rising slightly. “No, but I know that your siblings follow the Seven. I had assumed that you did the same,” he said, resting his palm on the pommel of his sword.

Jon felt his features darken, that old resentment curling up around his throat, as familiar as the scarlet leaves of the weirwood tree. “Lady Stark follows the Seven and so do her children. I follow my father’s gods,” he said, his voice a bittersweet mix of pride and an old sadness that seemed as a part of him as the grey of his eyes or the darkness of his hair. Some small, ugly part of himself had always been secretly gleeful of the fact that he took after his northern father more than his Tully colored siblings, sans Arya, but he had always tried to stamp down that particular pettiness. Robb had never deserved his scorn, not ever, for he always treated him as a trueborn brother, same as he treated Bran or Rickon. But even still, the sting of never earning Lady Catelyn’s love had always been a festering wound in his heart.

The Kingslayer didn’t even attempt to stifle his cruel smile, his green eyes glittering with malice. “Ah, yes. I suppose it would be rather strange for the Bastard of Winterfell to take after Lady Catelyn. After all, she isn’t your mother,” he taunted, stepping closer to Jon, as if daring him to throw a punch.

He almost did, but as the black rage began to rise within him, burning like dragonfire through his bloodstream, he remembered the quiet, composed anger of his father, and forced himself to calm, lending himself to his better instincts. It would’ve been so easy to give into the heat and the madness of his anger, but in the end, Jon knew it would accomplish nothing. He stifled a grimace. It would do nothing but get himself killed, or whipped bloody, at the very least.

The Kingslayer furrowed his brows in confusion, his eyes shining for a moment with some unreadable emotion. “You’re not going to hit me?” he asked, sauntering back towards the tree.

Jon shook his head, bringing his arms around himself tighter. “And do what?” he asked bitterly. “Get myself killed?”

Lannister chuckled, his lips quirked in a barely-there smile. “My father always told me that bastards were quick to anger,” he said, but then he held up a finger, his face taking on an expression of faux thoughtfulness. “Or was he speaking of the Starks?” He flicked his hand dismissively. “Ah, I suppose it doesn’t matter. Perhaps you’re different, bastard.”

Jon scowled. “Maybe I am. Although, I don’t imagine that you know many bastards,” he said, a smirk playing at his mouth.

Lannister turned towards him, his eyes narrowed. He obviously caught on to Jon’s attempt to snark at him. However, instead of lashing out at him, as most knights did when reacting to hints of disrespect, he simply shook his head and wagged a finger.

“Careful, bastard. I may not show it, but I don’t respond favorably to insolence,” he admonished and then strode over to the stump Jon was sitting on earlier, sinking down onto it.

Jon wanted to reply with sarcasm, but he held his tongue, not wanting to find out if Lannister was serious or not. Instead, he just flexed his sword hand, now growing uncomfortable with the Kingslayer’s presence. “Why are you still here? I thought you were part of the Kingsgaurd?” he asked.

Lannister snorted, unsheathing his sword and settling it on his armored thighs. “What of it, bastard?”

Jon gritted his teeth at his insistence on using the derogatory title, but he stamped down on the anger rising within him. He supposed that he should start getting used to it. It was strange. At Winterfell, despite his positive relationships with his siblings and with Sansa, he had always considered himself to be an outsider, an interloper, and felt mistreated as a result. However, the longer he spent amongst the southern knights and nobility, he began to feel the true weight and the scorn that came with his status.

Jon rolled his shoulders and stepped back an inch, wanting to be as far from the Kingslayer as possible. “So why are you still here with-?” Jon hesitated, flexing his sword hand nervously. “With me?”

Lannister looked up from his sword, his expression genuinely confused before a look of horrified realization settled on his features. “Now don’t tell me,” he drawled, holding a hand up. He brought his other hand to his mouth, as if to stifle a laugh. Jon watched, puzzled by his behavior.

“Don’t tell me that you’re beginning to fancy me,” he whispered loudly, cupping his mouth with his palm.

Jon felt his face immediately turn crimson, his ears so hot he was half-tempted to check if they were on fire. He scrambled backwards, his hands outstretched as if to reject an advance.

“Of course not!” he sputtered, his voice heavy with disbelief and disgust. The Kingslayer began to guffaw obnoxiously in front of him.

He brought a hand up and waved it from side to side, his other hand wiping away stray tears. “Calm down, Snow. I was just jesting with you,” he said, fighting off a chuckle. “Well, I was mostly,” he conceded after a moment.

Jon scowled at him and fisted his hands. He had been the butt of a joke for seven and ten years now. He didn’t need to be one again, especially not for the likes of dishonorable wretches like Jaime Lannister, the only member of the Kingsguard to murder his own king. It was a wonder that Robert Baratheon was ever able to sleep at night, knowing that he had such a monster guarding his door.

Jon turned to storm away from him, but the Kingslayer stopped laughing and called his name. He paused, but didn’t move to turn around.

“Alright, alright, I’m done,” he said. “You can face me now. I have a couple questions for you.”

Jon spun around to meet his gaze, one dark brow raised. “What do you want to ask me that you haven’t already interrogated me about earlier?”

The Kingslayer looked like he wanted to say something snarky, as was his way, but he held his tongue, obviously aware that if he said anything else, Jon would leave, questions or no questions.

“How old are you?” he asked.

Jon scrunched his forehead at the surprisingly simple inquiry.

“Seven and teen. I am to reach my eight and tenth name day in a month,” he replied, folding his arms across his chest.

“Who taught you to fight?”

Jon quirked a smile, a hint of pride warming his normally somber tone. “Ser Rodrick.”

The Kingslayer nodded slowly and then stood, gracefully sheathing his sword in a practiced motion. “You said earlier that I defeated you rather quickly,” he stated.

Jon felt his cheeks color in shame. He didn’t need to be reminded. “Yes, I did,” he said.

“Well, the truth, bastard, is that you faired rather well. I’d have shoved most boys your age into the dirt within the first minute,” Lannister said, absentmindedly twirling a dagger he produced from his belt.

Jon was stunned into silence. Not an ounce of the Kingslayer looked impressed with him, despite the high praise he gave to Jon. And despite every part of himself hating it, Jon couldn’t deny that a compliment from Jaime Lannister, blandly given or not, on his prowess as a fighter, was a thing to be taken quite seriously, indeed. Some childish part of himself wanted to run off and tell Sansa about it.

Jon swallowed roughly, his fingers twitching, his fidgeting becoming even more pronounced when Lannister set his hard eyes upon him again. “Aren’t you going to say anything?” he asked slowly, raising a golden eyebrow.

Jon shook his head imperceptibly and shrugged. “I don’t know what to say,” he answered lamely.

The Kingslayer spared him an irritated look, his demeanor clearly showing Jon that he thought that he was simple. “Say that you’ll practice to improve on your skill.”

Jon wanted to scoff. “Of course I’ll so that. I am San-.” He stopped, swallowing. “I am my half-sister’s sworn sword now. It is my duty to improve my sword fighting.”

The Kingslayer smirked at him, twirling his curved dagger again. “Clever boy,” he said sarcastically. “But that’s not what I meant.”

“Then what do you mean?” Jon snapped, growing tired of this conversation, wanting to leave. Sansa should be done with her lessons by now, a thing she had griped about to him earlier, upset that she still had to learn arithmetic while on the Kingsroad.

“I mean that you should allow me to train you.”

Jon reared his head back, shock causing his jaw to go slack. Of all things he expected Jaime Lannister to ask of him, the proposal of him teaching Jon to fight was not one of them.

He must’ve caught on to Jon’s surprise, because he rolled his eyes theatrically, moving to stand in front of him. “The truth is, bastard, I see something of myself in you.” _I hope not,_ Jon thought. “And it would be quite irritating to see you waste talent on the mediocre tips that I know the other knights gave you.”

Jon wanted to spit in his face, to turn him down coldly and walk away without looking back, but even then, he knew that was foolish. Despite however rotten Jaime Lannister might’ve been as a person, his prowess as a swordsman was almost as legendary as that of Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning.

Jon looked away from the piercing gaze of the Kingslayer and ran a hand down his face. After a moment he replied, “But I’m no southerner. I’ll never be a knight.”

Lannister rolled his eyes again. “My gods, does the cold in the north freeze your brain until it’s useless?” he asked whilst shaking his head in silent disbelief. “You don’t need to be a knight to be a good fighter, bastard. What you need is talent and ambition,” he stated firmly.

Jon took a breath, mulling it over in his head. Under the guidance of Jaime Lannister, he might become one of the best warriors in the realm, in the world, even. However, he would also have to spend time in his insufferable presence. More time than he would have otherwise.

Lannister sighed, irritated with his silence. “Well, will you let me train you or no?” he inquired impatiently.

Jon hardened his face, smoothing it over into an expression of passivity. He already knew his answer.

“Yes.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa breathed a silent sigh of relief as Septa Mordane dismissed her from her tent, her lesson apparently over.

She knew that it was rotten of her, but she found herself tiring of her Septa’s near constant presence now. She had enjoyed her Septa’s company before, but now, instead of feeling skilled and productive, Sansa felt as if she was being criticized more than ever.

She knew why, of course. Septa Mordane simply expected more out of her now that she was a future queen and was just trying to prepare her in the best way she knew how, but Sansa was becoming weary of it. Being prodded and corrected and straightened up when she was supposedly slouching had made a monster of her. It was becoming harder and harder not to snap at her Septa now, to keep her frustration at bay.

Sansa sighed as she walked out of the tent, bringing her hand up to shield her eyes from the sun. _At least I understand Arya a little more now,_ she thought.

Speaking of her sister, Sansa hadn’t seen her in hours. She predictably missed their sewing lesson earlier with the princess and the queen, which Sansa found endlessly humiliating.

Sansa forced a sigh, resigning herself to search for her. She would scold her then.

She walked forward, towards a knight that stood by another tent, sipping from a leather skin of what Sansa hoped was water. He straightened when he saw her approach.

“My Lady?” he asked, hurriedly shoving his leather skin behind himself.

_Not water then._

Sansa smiled up at him politely, folding her hands demurely in front of her. “Hello, Ser,” she greeted pleasantly. “I was wondering if you had seen my sister?” she asked.

The knight scratched at his scraggly beard, peering around absently. Sansa felt her smile strain as the seconds passed without an answer.

Finally he turned his attention back to her. “No, my lady, I haven’t. Is she, perhaps, the little one with the dark hair?” he asked, gesturing with his hand at what he guessed Arya’s height to be.

Sansa nodded smoothly, keeping her smile even as she felt the urge to roll her eyes. “Yes, that’s exactly it.”

The knight pursed his lips and nodded slowly, looking around lazily once again. “Mhm _,_ ” he hummed. “I haven’t seen her.”

Sansa sighed through her nose, but kept her air of poise. “Well thank you anyway, Ser…?” she purposefully trailed off.

The knight pointed at himself, his eyebrows raised in question as he seem to catch on to her meaning. “Wendell,” he answered.

Sansa bowed her head courteously. “Ser Wendell,” she said, and then turned to walk away, thinking that perhaps Jon had seen her.

A sudden hand grasping at her elbow stopped her in place, however, and Sansa turned, her brows furrowed. A part of her hoped it was Jon and a genuine smile tugged at her lips at the thought, but it almost fell off her face entirely once she met the prince’s green eyes.

“Your grace,” she said, inclining her head in a slight curtsey. “How wonderful to see you,” she said brightly.

Joffrey grinned back at her, the look of it unfortunately pleasant on his face. Sansa attributed it to his resemblance to his uncle, Ser Jaime Lannister, who was probably one of the most attractive men she had ever seen in her entire life. It was an unlucky thing, however, for someone as pompous as Joffrey to even claim the label of handsome.

“My Lady,” he breathed, a stink of wine on his breath. Sansa stifled a disgusted grimace. “Would you join me on a walk around the Trident. I can show you exactly where my father killed that inbred Rhaegar Targaryen,” he said, his tone dripping with a hint of enthused malice.

Sansa bit the inside of her cheek and looked over his shoulder, praying to see Jon in the background so that he may interrupt them. However, despite her best wishes, all she saw were servants bustling about.

Joffrey jostled her, his fingers digging into her arm a bit. “My lady?” he asked, sounding irritated.

Sansa turned her attention back to him and offered him a dazzling smile, resisting the urge to yank her arm away from his tight grip. “Of course, Your Grace. That sounds wonderful,” she said breathlessly.

Joffrey immediately relaxed his grip and smiled at her, the look of it almost sweet on his handsome face. “Good,” he said and then offered her his arm, staring at her expectantly.

Sansa held back a sigh and slipped her arm though his, resting her fingers lightly on his skinny bicep. She couldn’t help but compare the size of it to Jon’s, whose muscles felt firm and strong beneath her hands. The feel and flex of them moving under her fingers always made her blush, just as it did now. She hoped that if the prince saw it, he attributed it to his effect on her, and not anyone else’s.

Once they entered the shade of the surrounding forest, Joffrey produced a flask and held it out to her. Sansa stared at it silently and then shot a questioning look towards the prince.

He rolled his eyes at her, obviously thinking her simple. “It’s wine. Drink,” he commanded.

Sansa ignored her smarting pride at his blatant rudeness and wordlessly inched back. She had drank wine before, of course, but she had never much cared for the flavor or the slight sting it brought as it slid down her throat.

“Your Grace, I-“

Joffrey pushed the flask closer. “Drink!” he said again, leaving no room for refusal.

Sansa bit down on her lower lip, seeing no option other than to listen to him. She silently reached forward and took the flask, bringing it to her lips.

From beside her, she could feel Joffrey’s burning gaze focus on her mouth as she placed it on the rim of the flask. No doubt his lips had been there earlier. She took a quick sip, nearly making a face as the over-warm wine hit her tongue. She moved to give it back to Joffrey, but he sighed as if annoyed, and then put his hand on hers over the flask, shoving it back into her open mouth.

Sansa sputtered slightly as a rush of wine spilled down her throat, as warm and as red as blood. The amount of it caused her to gag slightly and she blindly shoved the prince’s hand away, coughing out drops of wine and spittle.

Joffrey wrenched his arm from hers and laughed loudly as she choked in front of him, clearly too amused by her distress to help her.

After a few moments, Sansa regained her composure, straightening up, but her cheeks burned with shame. She wanted to leave. Being around Joffrey as she choked on _his_ wine because of _his_ pushiness while he laughed in front of her had only further revealed another layer of his cruelty.

Sansa pounded on her chest with a clenched fist and coughed again, wracking her brain for an excuse to go back to her and Arya’s tent.

“Your Grace, I fear that I feel rather unwell,” she rasped, wine still apparently clogging her throat.

Joffrey abruptly stopped laughing and turned a hard look on her. “You want to leave already?” he asked slowly, folding his arms across his chest.

Sansa felt her heart begin to race with panic, but she fought to keep the fear off of her face.

“Of course not, Your Grace,” she answered hurriedly. “I would never choose to willingly leave your presence, but I do not wish to look so indisposed in front of you.”

Joffrey grinned at her fawning and placed a hand between her shoulder blades, plastering a look of forced concern upon his face. Sansa didn’t think that he was half as good of an actor as he thought he was. “My lady, you do not need to stress over such things. After all, you are always beautiful to me, indisposed or otherwise,” he said, leaning in slowly.

Sansa wanted to rear her head back, but she forced herself to stay still, reluctant to incur his wrath.

Joffrey paused when his face was mere inches from her own. His green eyes flickered to her lips as he stared back at her, a silent question in his gaze, swiping his tongue languidly over his mouth. Sansa nearly shuddered at the sight.

When she did not move closer, Joffrey sighed harshly, his putrid breath hitting her face, nearly causing her to gag. “May I kiss you, Lady Sansa?” he asked impatiently.

Sansa resisted the urge to push him away roughly, every cell in her body cringing at the sheer wrongness that the thought of kissing Joffrey provoked in her. _Not Jon! Not Jon! Not Jon!_ her mind seemed to scream.

Sansa sucked in a breath, praying that her hesitance could be mistaken for maidenly excitement.

Your Grace,” she breathed. “We mustn’t! We are only just betrothed!” she said, as if scandalized.

Joffrey glared at her and brought a hand up, placing it firmly at the back of her neck. “We’ve been betrothed for months. I don’t think anyone would protest to a little kiss,” he whispered, forcibly bringing her head forward.

Sansa placed her hands on his scrawny chest, holding him back slightly. “Your Grace, but I-“

Joffrey roughly shook her head with his hand, causing Sansa to involuntarily cry out. “It’s just a kiss! Stop being so prudish!” he demanded and brought her forward.

Sansa let her hands go lax on his chest, conceding to his demand despite every nerve in her body urging her to push him away.

Joffrey’s lips smashed into hers artlessly, his incisors roughly scraping against her lush bottom lip, cutting her slightly. Sansa whimpered at the sting of it against his mouth.

The appearance of blood and the vocalization of her pain seemed to spur him on as Joffrey moved his lips over hers more fully, his tongue reaching out and swiping sloppily at the drop of blood on her bottom lip. He moaned at the taste of it, while Sansa shivered with revulsion against him.

The sudden sound of someone clearing their throat broke them apart, and Sansa simultaneously almost sobbed with relief and cringed back in shame at the wrathful, dark storm that raged in Jon’s grey eyes as he stared at her from behind Jaime Lannister.

Ser Jaime looked between them, his green eyes taking in the grateful look that was undoubtedly on Sansa’s face and the irritated expression on Joffrey’s.

Joffrey scoffed and grabbed Sansa’s arm, roughly tugging her towards him, his harsh grip involuntarily causing her to yelp. She kept her eyes on Jon, wanting to draw strength from his presence, but all she could feel was Joffrey’s hand wrapped like an iron band around her forearm.

Ser Jaime’s eyes softened as he caught sight of her poorly hidden fear and the prince’s harsh hold on her, and he moved forward, carelessly flicking Joffrey’s hand away from her.

“Uncle Jaime!” he squealed indignantly. “How dare you touch her? Or touch me? You can’t-!”

“Snow, if he continues to speak, please call his mother. I fear he’ll make a scene,” Ser Jaime drawled, carelessly interrupting the raging prince. Sansa almost gasped at his presumption. Although, she supposed that being the queen’s twin brother afforded him a few privileges. One of them being to scold Joffrey.

Over Ser Jaime’s broad shoulder, she could see Jon nod once, but his gaze remained fixed on her. Warmth flooded her belly at the intensity in his eyes.

Ser Jaime set an arm lightly upon her shoulder, to which Joffrey began screeching again.

“How dare you touch her? She’s mine! She’s mine! She’s m-“

Ser Jaime rolled his eyes, and then sent a look over his shoulder. “Snow,” he said simply, clearly expecting him to go and fetch the queen now. Sansa couldn’t understand why he counted on Jon to listen to him, it wasn’t as if they properly knew each other before this moment. Although, that wasn’t exactly right wasn’t it? For some reason, Jaime Lannister and Jon were already together when they had found her and Joffrey. She would make sure to ask Jon why when she saw him later.

Jon began to move out, but Sansa reached out with her hand. “Wait!” she yelled. “That’s not necessary.”

Ser Jaime spared her a look, clearly in disbelief, but Sansa soldiered on.

She moved back towards Joffrey, reaching for his arm with her hand. “Prince Joffrey and I were simply taking a walk when he asked to kiss me. I suppose we got carried away,” she said lightly, nestling her hand in the crook of Joffrey’s arm. She huffed an embarrassed chuckle. “I ask that you keep this from my father,” she pleaded, feeling Joffrey’s chest swell beside her, male pride evident in his bearing.

Ser Jaime nodded, still obviously unconvinced, but Jon just stood silently, his arms crossed and his features twisted with anger. He silently kicked at the dirt in front of him.

“Of course, I wouldn’t tell your father. Let’s just let this remain a secret between all of us,” Ser Jaime said, clapping his hands together.

Sansa nodded at him enthusiastically, plastering a radiant smile on her face just to be sure. At the very least, it was good that Joffrey was convinced by her act, even if Jon and Ser Jaime weren’t.

Joffrey began to walk forward, tugging her along with him. “We must get going now, _Uncle,”_ Joffrey sneered, the title coming out as a hiss, no different than that of a snake. “Supper will be beginning soon.”

Ser Jaime nodded at him, his face placid, but before they could leave the forest, he pulled her aside, slipping an embroidered handkerchief into her hand. He leaned towards her and whispered in her ear, “You put on a good front, my lady, but no pretty smile of yours can hide the blood on your lip.”

Sansa yanked her head back, her blue eyes wide, but all he did was make a wiping motion towards his bottom lip, his brilliant green eyes looking slightly sad at the edges.

She whispered her thanks and brought the fabric to her lips. When she was satisfied, she looked forward, her gaze melding with Jon’s.

She wanted to shove Joffrey away and leap into his arms, but his presence and the presence of Ser Jaime made that impossible. A horrible longing filled her heart, a vile voice in her head whispering, _that’s the way it’ll always be. A million eyes in your direction and not one of them a friend’s._ However, Sansa stamped it down roughly. A stolen moment under the light of the moon was better than nothing between them at all.

Jon’s grey eyes softened as he took in her appearance and he raised his eyebrows in a silent question. Sansa inclined her head minutely, wordlessly answering him.

As they passed each other, Jon reached out with his pinky, letting their fingers meet for a second, allowing for a whisper of a feeling. Sansa stifled the excited shiver that threatened to race through her, for all the promise that Jon conveyed in that small barely-there touch.

Both of their thoughts seemed to echo it at the same time, as if they were of the same mind.

_Tonight._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lack of jonsa in this update but I really wanted to set up the jon/jaime dynamic that's gonna be REALLY instrumental in this story. Also, writing for jaime is very new to me, despite the fact that he's my favorite asoiaf/got character, so tell me how you think I did or how you think I can improve. I love him to pieces and I want to do him right. Also! This ended up being long as shit and I wanted to write more but I figured 14 pages was a good amount. I wrote all of this within like five hours, including some editing, so I'm sorry if there are more spelling errors than there usually are. I did try to catch them all, but my eyes were already burning and I was determined to upload this by tonight (tomorrow? lol it's 3 o'clock in the morning right now.) Anyway! Leave a comment, kudos, a bookmark! I love to be validated!


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